Halamshiral
by W Murray
Summary: Every action in Ferelden in the Dragon Age has a consequence. Some of these are only realized after the Grey Warden has died defeating the Archdemon. Looking for a BetaReader! Battle, nudity, and gore: all the good things in life! Alistair/Tabris/Zevran
1. Prologue

Authors Note: My first proper Author's Note! Yay! Anyways, I do not own or make any right to claim anything related to Dragon Age. This is intended solely for enjoyment. I want to thank ApathyisDeath and PrincessFawna for being my betareaders. Bored? See if you can spot out all the endings to my playthrough, as represented in the story. There are clues.

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In Denerim there was a park next to the palace of the king. In the center of this park there lay a sarcophagus of gray marble, with a live oak shaped around it, the trunk molding to cover about half of the surface. Leaning against the tree was a marble statue of a seated Elven woman. She had been made to look weary if relieved, her thin blades laying next to her, one hand just brushing a lock of hair behind slender pointed ears. It was if someone had just spoken to her, for she looked askance at something to her left. In front of this tomb there was a rose bush that bloomed constantly throughout the year, no matter what season it was. A small courtyard was formed around the sarcophagus by a series of arches, a wall that separated the sleeper there from the rest of the world, yet opened her to all that would pay respect. At dusk every night there would be an elven voice that sung a lament for the woman that lay there, wishing her well and bidding her to rest at the end of her long, arduous journey. At the feet of the stone woman there was an inscription:

"Sylrien Tabris: Grey Warden of Ferelden.  
You are the drop of water in the still pool that saved our bodies, and our spirit.  
Your time has come, now rest your weary eyes, beloved.  
Our hearts are gray, we are filled with sorrow but forever will we sing of you. "

The King of Ferelden, known to Tabris when she was alive, granted the Denerim Elves unprecedented freedoms and gave the Dalish their own lands. Alienages across the known world demanded the same rights and favors that those of Denerim had, and for a people that had been bound by poverty, they once more knew light. The city elves met and traded with their 'wild' brethren freely, and from that union traditions were reborn and ties strengthened. Ten years after her death, after her sacrifices, Tabris was a name spoken like Shartan; elves began venerating the old gods, much to the Chantry's chagrin and their keepers spoke of seeing Tabris fighting Fen'harel in the Fade, working to free their gods from heaven and serve as jailer to the lords of the abyss. She became to the elves as Andraste was to the humans, and statues of her mimicked the tomb at Denerim, the weary elf sitting at the base of the vhenadahl. Upon the eleventh anniversary of her death, it seemed she granted her people another boon: Their aging had begun to slow, and no longer did they fall prey to sickness and disease. Keepers and Hahren alike claimed that Tabris had emerged victorious in her battle against the Lord of Tricksters. This was not quite true, for in light of this new golden age the seed of hope and joy had been planted in the hearts of the Elvhanan so did their people flourish. Halamshiral was reborn.

So when the first pilgrims came to her tomb on the twelfth anniversary of the end of the Blight and found the tree fallen, the roses on the bush wilted, and the tomb cracked open to reveal nothing...There was a wail that echoed through Denerim unlike anything the city had ever heard before...

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_I see it. There is no Golden City when I enter the Fade - there is no landscape of twisted and torn bits of land. There is Arlathan, and I see before me all my ancestors - I see my mother smiling, proud and regal...Was she always so? She was not broken, beaten, her blood no longer stains the stones of the Alienage. All at once I know the lost ways of our people, the shining shields of the Emerald Knights, the magics and lore and traditions that had always existed in my mind as half whispers or shadows. There was pain and sorrow before; my heart ached as surely as my body as the blade hit the heart of the Archdemon. There was so much darkness followed by such light - this light. The Elvhanan are not gone. They are here, and I see them in the heavens dancing and singing with our gods._

_Mythal and Elgar'nan greet me. They let me sit by them and sing to me welcomes and praise. They whisper the secrets of the world to me, telling me my pointed ears are made so that I might hear the gods better in my life before this. Tears are wept in sorrow and joy for those that are not with us, and time passes as it did in the ancient days - all at once, yet forever long. I leave the trappings of the cities - those poor, unloved places - to run free, free and wild among the hawk and hare. I am no longer Tabris, yet I am Tabris. More and yet, nothing at all. I am elf._

_This is bliss. When Arlathan was swallowed by the earth, the gods saved it and raised it to the heavens. I live here now_ (You are not finished) _and all that has passed before is a dream. I am free of the Taint. There are names I remember, people I see here...There is the room of a thousand pools...I look into them and see dreams of former companions. I hear my name (_Sylrien_) whispered on the winds whenever it is spoken by friendly lips. I will live forever, hunting, singing, dancing and weaving and all the things that make the life of the Elvhanen what it is._

_Sometimes I see comrades that are not of the Elves. They journey here from their Maker's side to celebrate and spin tales fine and wondrous. The King Cailan is there, and all of the Wardens. Some of which I knew - Duncan is here, and he pats my back. His brothers and sisters-in-arms raise a cup to me. Garahel is here, the slayer of the Archdemon before I. We embrace and share in the misery and release of that grave duty_. (You may be done with this world, but I am not done with you.) _We dance beneath the moonlight and I love and am loved in return. And this bliss will last forever, and one day the gates of the heavens will be opened and all the rest of the world will join us in purity and light. _

(Not yet, Warden. Not yet.)


	2. Chapter 1: A Rude Awakening

**Authors Note:**

**Hello again! It's me. I hope you liked the prologue enough to continue reading. I forgot to ask this, but if you could please review, so I know that you liked it, hated it, critiqued it....you know, the usual. As always, thank you so much, PrincessFawna and ApathyisDeath. Even if no-one else comments, knowing you two enjoyed it makes me happy, because I love to share stories and depictions of our faovirte video-game hunks. You know, Atton Rand, Alistair....Zevran.**

**Though I have to be honest, Atton wins by *this much* because as mentioned, sarcastic guys making snide remarks about Fem! Exile wandering around her underwear? Hot. ....Back to the story.**

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**Prologue**

Suddenly she knew pain. There was a bright, blinding pain enveloping her entire being. In this pain, all of the joy Tabris knew, all of the memories of what lies Beyond, are wiped out and forgotten. She came back to this world with a scream as her body lurched forward, writhing in agony as her eyes rolled back into her head. "Stop!" She cried, "STOP!"

She remembered her last moments - the sound of her swords sinking into the flesh of the dragon thing, felt the demon's soul entwine itself with hers and leave her body. There was a man, with eyes of amber, holding her and telling her to stay, telling her not to leave him. But she was gone, she could feel the cold overcome her body even as his lips, his warm lips pressed against her own, trying to pass some of his life, some of his warmth to her. Sylrien pushed him away. This was the choice she made for her people, for all of Ferelden. He had to be strong for her; he was her heart, and she would always be with him as long as life flowed in his veins.  
"But you promised..." The warrior moaned, clutching her frail form against his own. "You promised you would stay, that you would help me lead. You must keep your promise..."  
There were some promises she had to break, some promises she had lied about in order to keep going through the hordes of things that she had to do battle with. He would understand in time.  
"Alistair..." Sylrien murmured, after the pain had subsided. "Alistair..."

'Yes, yes, you broke your promise to the young King. You did what you had to do. If it were not for your empty promises, I would not be here to repay my debt to you. But my my, you are a troublesome Warden." A female voice called out to her amidst the blinding the pain, rich and sultry, with a clipped accent. "If you had taken lovely Morrigan's offer, you would still be there with him, but that would have been too easy for you...This makes the second time I have brought you back."

Grey eyes snapped open as she tried to sit up but her arms did not seem to work. She fell back, and was aware for the first time of sheets, silken sheets. That rich laugh echoed in her ears as she looked up, looked around. There was a figure there, draped in a dark blue silk. That figure looked down at her with yellow eyes, and raven hair framing a pale, unblemished face.  
"But ...But Morrigan..." Tabris murmured, still hazy and numb from the pain. "Your mother, why did she...save us from the tower? I have had such terrible....awful dreams..." Again that laughter rang out as her gaze became clearer. It was the face of the Wilds Witch that looked down at her, but not the surroundings...this was no hut in the wilds, but a grand room. Looking down, Sylrien spied a scar along her thigh - she received that when...when she was ambushed in the Temple of Andraste by cultists...

Why could she not move her arms? Again she tugged, tried to move. A manicured hand, riddled with ancient looking rings pushed her chest down. Sylrien was once more flat on her back, but as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, she was able to make something out about her surroundings. They were in a room bedecked with rich furnishings: gilded mirrors, tapestries and the like. Light flickered from flames encased in glass lamps, and the air tasted thick - thick and coppery? 'Blood,' she thought, immediately trying to work against her bonds. The longer she stayed awake, the faster she regained some measure of herself. She should have been dead - she had killed the Archdemon, she had felt it grab at her soul and felt the life ebb from her.  
"Morrigan!" She shouted, "What have you done to me?"

Again that musical, dangerous laugh. "Morrigan? Ah, yes, that was my lovely daughter. She thought herself free of me, but you made sure 'twas not so." Suddenly she became aware of a needle-like scraping against her skin, looked up and saw the witch _carving_ straight into her skin. She must have made some noise, some gasp or another, for the woman looked up and down at her captive. "See, if you would have convinced your young King to lay with my daughter, then she would have born the tainted child and you would have known freedom...and life. But things rarely go as we plan, hmm? When you spared my life, I was certain that you would have done more to spare his, or your own."

"What, what madness are you speaking of? Morrigan - you called me sister once, you-"

"Silence!" The beauty snapped back, something flickering in her yellow eyes before she purred softly, meticulous in whatever macabre needlework she was engaged in on the pale flesh of the elf. "Morrigan is no more, child. She is now as you were, and 'tis of no use to speak of it." Another throaty purr as the blade cut deep. Whatever had numbed the pain before had begun to wear off, and Sylrien gritted her teeth, whimpering slightly. "Hush now, this is delicate work. One wrong flourish and we shall both be joining the Fade. Would you have the veil torn open on the vain hope of escape? Leave the world to ruin because you could not lie still?"

Begrudgingly she submitted to the woman, closing her eyes. There was no escape from this, yet.

Hours passed like eternity before the witch stood, satisfied with her work. "Child, you do make a fine canvas. A shame such things are forbidden. yes? Ah, 'tis no great matter. You have what belongs to me, and I will not have an elf upsetting my plans. The question is, what shall I do with you once I have claimed it?" Was a second death to be her fate? Tabris began to struggle in earnest, attempting to hold back her sobs. Her senses were on fire, her skin , her entire body aching and bleeding. "Please...please, no more. I..."

A fourth time that sweet, hateful laughter rang in her ears. "Oh, do not worry. I would still owe you a boon for sparing me the hardship of leaving my old form, and allowing me to settle into such a well prepared vessel! Do not worry, I know what I shall do with you, and you will not find it unpleasant. Now sleep, sleep child. You are bound once more to the Fade for a little longer yet..."

The elf tried to protest, tried to shrink away from the fingers that touched her forehead, tried to block out the soft whispering of words, and tried to fight off the drowsiness that began to overtake her. But it was all in vain, and as her eyes fluttered shut, the laughter once more filled her ears. It was all she could do utter a single word.

"Flemeth."


	3. Chapter 2: A Most Curious Job

**Authors Note: Sorry about the delays, just trying to get all the ducks in a row. A huge thank you to my beta readers. Now the fun stuff starts, right? As always, let me know you like it, please? Read and Review! It make me happy. It makes Zevran happy! It makes everyone happy!**

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**Chapter 2**

In another part of the world, weeks later, Zevran Aranai would prop his hands behind his head, inhaling the sharp sweet air of Antiva City. It was the late afternoon, and he had just spent most of his late night and early morning with a bewitching creature-a woman by the name of Sheyanna. She had eyes like coal and wicked red lips. She had been a dancer in the tavern he had business in, and he could not resist the allure of her swaying hips underneath layers of gauze. After his dealings had been finished, he figured that he deserved a little something, a someone who he could unwind with. It was only after she had been straddling him upon a divan that she had put the knife to his throat, demanding him empty his pockets or else she would empty his veins was he truly sold on her. He had reminded her that the wine he had so freely plied her with had been poisoned, and in the end they came up with a rather pleasant arrangement. He'd give her the antidote and she would drop the blade. Of course after all that cloak and dagger, he had realized they both needed a rather thorough bath...

But that begged the question, in the thin layers of skirt and top he had enjoyed feeling before the intrigue, where had she hidden such a large knife? Ah, probably not best to think about it. They had quite an evening, really and she must have been pleased, because there had been a bit of bloodletting after all....Heh. She had definitely been an interesting night's amusement. Maybe he could stretch out that fun for a few more evenings. He smirked softly to himself as he walked out the balcony, observing the busy marketplace in the afternoon sun, looking out over the towers and estate-like fortresses that dotted the city's skyline. There was a job tonight, from someone that had requested his services by name. Zevran idly wondered who was trying to trap him or kill him this time. It surely was not anyone behind the Emperor, for he had led the assault against his enemies himself at the behest of the man's mother. He loved concubines-they were more devious than he was, and always mixed their business with pleasure. That was what made them so deadly. And fun.

But before setting out, he took out a silver bar, thin and pure, from the pouch at his side. It had been a gift from _her_ so many years ago. When boots had and gloves had long worn out, it was these few permanent, shiny things that were left of her. He had once commented on her eyes, he thought. 'Lovely Warden..." he murmured to her one passing evening. 'If I could somehow mine silver in your eyes, ' What had he done? Oh, he had sneaked a kiss on the nape of her neck, purring into her other ear. 'Such a pure silver could be fashioned into a necklace that would make all the stars in the sky weep with shame...' She had bolted from him before he could steal another kiss, laughing and threatening him with a smile on her face. But he had felt her tremble slightly when their skin touched, he knew what images she had conjured in her mind. A week later he had found the bar in his tent, though she never said a word about it. Now it was his luck charm, and like he had done for twelve years, he pressed it to his lips for a moment..

Later on as he rappelled down the spire of one particularly tall tower, he mused on the circumstances of this job. It was an Orlesian woman, some adviser to their gaudy Empress. Apparently she had the ear of the Empress but little else at the court in Orlais And since dealing with royalty and their advisers had become a specialty of his, all the way back with the Teryn Loghain....If silence had not been of the utmost import he would have laughed. The turn of events at *that* instance had been entirely accidental, but rumors swirled about how he had played the various figures at the Ferelden court at the behest of the bastard prince Theirin. It was not an easy feat to murder one of Ferelden's most admired heroes and make it look legitimate without protests and riots. Few knew that his paranoia almost damned the entire country, and fewer still that Loghain had been guilty of regicide himself. Shame about that Queen, though. There was a rose condemned to wither in her tower. A tower much like the one he was about to storm. Half-hoping that he would indeed find a damsel in distress with whom he could share an evening's entertainment with, he fastened a claw into the base of the spiraled top of the building, and in three...two...one...jumped and swung into one of thin windows on the tower's surface-

With his feet flying into the face of a guard that had been patrolling the stairs. Just as he calculated, the man was slammed against the wall, cushioning the impact the lithe elf made. There had been guards at the base of the tower, and a guard at the balcony at the top. He had seen the regular shadow pass up and down, so his timing was essential. Neither groups at either end would hear him in the middle, and they would think the lone guard talking to either groups. Cutting himself free of the rope, he began to bound up the stairs, soft leather boots barely making a sound, he was so quick. Zevran figured he had maybe half an hour to do the deed and get out. Soon the door came into view, but he could sense something...heavy in the air. His speed brought him right up to the closed door, steeping down to take a look at it. There was no lock, and there was no keyhole. These doors were not made to be barred, but....

He lifted up his mask and leaned in so that his nose was less than an inch away from the wooden surface of the door. Slowly he inhaled, then breathed softly. A light violet shield shimmered in front of the door, crackling with energy. _Magic. Nice_.  
But he was prepared for this. While he only ever used two daggers when engaged in combat, he kept a third, twisted blade on his belt. This weapon never saw actual combat. "Candor Illumina Libere" he whispered, drawing a circle with the tip on the door. The shield fizzled again before dissipating, leaving the door open to him. The room was luxuriously appointed if not very well lit. In the middle there was a canopied bed with a formless lump of a body buried beneath sheets and blankets, an oil lamp flickering and casting long shadows over everything. "Far be it for me..." Zev whispered, "To disturb the lady's rest." With his eyes to the figured of the guard looking out over the balcony, he made his way to the center of the room. Drawing a long, curved blade, he began to part to the veils of the canopy, better to look at his target and make sure his blade struck true. The woman stirred in her sleep, turning and rolling to face Zevran. Always the gentleman, he bowed his head to her, before drawing back the blanket and beginning the downward arc that would bury the dagger in her heart-strange instructions, he thought in that second...

Only to have the dagger clatter to the floor as he saw her face. What trick, what devilry was this? He caught the motion of the guard turning toward them, the door to the balcony opening when the light from the lamp sputtered out. In that second everything vanished, everything changed. The guard flickered out of existence, the luxurious interiors vanished, the bed-the bed changed from a elaborate canopy to a thin wooden frame, but she, _she remained. _She was supposed to be dead. In twelve years she had not aged a day, the same pale skin, the raven hair, and the lines formed at the corners of her mouth. He had teased her about those lines, that a beautiful woman as she should only be laughing and smiling, that such frowns would leave marks more permanent and uglier than any scar. Several minutes passed before he could find his voice. "Sylrien," he whispered hoarsely, afraid to blink, afraid look away lest she disappeared. "Sylrien, is that you?" The Warden he had tried to banish from his mind for years, the woman that none could ever compare to...She was laying right here in front of him, and most importantly, she was _alive_.


	4. Chapter 3: Antivan Dreams

**Authors Note: Well, thank you everyone for the reviews so far! Thank you, everyone who has favorited this story, or placed it on alert. The more feedback I get that people actually like this story, the better. Don't worry, the fun stuff is coming up-and it wouldn't be Dragon Age without sex! As always, thank you friends and beta readers for maknig sure the story makes sense. **

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**Chapter 3**

_  
I have an oak staff, and a cedar branch. I shall use these to find my way in this place, I shall scatter the ravens of fear and deceit. Time has no meaning in this place, and it feels like I have been here for aeons. My thoughts turn to memories of an encounter I am not sure was real. I remember a voice and a face I once knew, but the eyes-gods in the heavens, those eyes were not of the woman I knew. I had seen those eyes many times before, but never have I realized what lay behind them. An abomination, an evil so great it fooled me. I thought them witches, I thought she an old crone, with no less of right to die than that of her daughter. Apostates, maleficar...Is that what he called them? How long has it been since I heard his voice? How long was I...? Dead. I was dead and the witch brought me back. Just as she had before at Ostagar. But what purpose do I serve for her now? No, I did not have a purpose. I was always a means to an end. Morrigan-back when she was Morrigan and I considered her friend, had said as much. In order to live through slaying the archdemon, I had to let her conceive a child with my love. Alistair, I would not let you do such a thing. I wanted to be selfless-for you to have a bastard? One imbued with the essence of an Old God? No good would come of it. But I didn't want to share you either; I didn't want to know you had a child with *her* when my womb would be forever barren to you. I was afraid there would be a chance you would have fallen in love with her, a beautiful human you could be with freely._

_I am afraid. No. I will not be afraid, I will drive the ravens of Fear and Deceit away from me. I would give everything to know your arms again. We have bond stronger than anything in this world, forged in the fires of Ostagar. I will find you. I **will **find you. But first I must make my way through the Fade. Faith, my love, I will have faith in our love. I feel eyes on me. No doubt the demons and spirits that haunt this place. I have defeated them before- let them cower! I would travel this place for eternity to see your face again. I shall not fade!_

(Well then, I told you that I would rise from the dead if it meant putting you on the right path, Warden. Shall I commence with the finger-wagging?)

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All that thought they knew Zevran in Antiva City were in for a shock at his transformation over the course of the week after the job at the tower. He became reclusive, no longer seeking companionship at the end of a night's business. While his schedule remained largely unchanged, he began pass off contracts to other Crows, hastened to his apartments instead of spending midnight hours in taverns drinking and reveling. Those that seemed to know him best whispered that a woman had cast her spell over him, that he was under the deadliest of enchantments - love. There were rumors of how he returned one night carrying someone in his arms, wrapped in a cloak that obscured his guest from the view of his guards. Others added-didn't he send servants out on strange tasks, retrieving parcels from various shopkeepers: a dressmakers, a jewelers? So he was doting on a woman, others countered. What is so strange about that? Why, no-one had seen her, no-one knew who it was, and while Zevran did not lack for subtlety in his work, he was an extrovert who made known his love of wine, women and song. Still, what of those others he had summoned to his quarters? The mages, the scholars? Bent and hooded figures who were not the type to be found in the elf's regular company? Why, another exclaimed, he had even seen a priest of a chantry leave his home, and one of those elves who were painted and inked and wore leaves and bark! Sounds like the start of a joke, another said. Laughter would follow their theories untill their blond master arrived, quiet and brooding.

The truth was not completely far removed from what his employees rumored and guessed at. There was a woman at the heart of the matter, Zevran would muse, but the situation was stranger than any fiction they concocted. On his bed lay Sylrien Tabris in a fitful, unending slumber. Even when she was not awake she still ruled over him. He had long since discovered that the while the coin was good, his contacts for this assignment had ceased to exist, and he did not doubt that he was meant to find her and care for her. Being someone's patsy was infuriating, but she would murmur something in her sleep, purse her lips and gasp and all that anger melted from him. It was almost like a fairytale, with the sleeping princess....he had dared hope that the resolution was similar, but when he found his lips close to hers, felt her warm breath on his skin...he lost all nerve, meekly taking her hand and kissing the top instead. So he had dedicated himself to summoning every source he could think of, pulled as many strings and called in as many favors as he felt owed to him get every leading scholar or magical mind in to see her, see what would end this deep, unnatural sleep. Sylrien being alive was another matter entirely, but one he did not wish to contemplate.

For now he concerned himself with every other comfort he could provide her. He wanted to give her what she deserved, even if she could not thank him for it. A servant was well payed to tend her when he was out, and keep silent about it. She was perfumed and bathed in milk, leaving her skin soft to the touch, dressed in the flimsy, gauzy fashions favored by women of the Emperor's court. As the Chantry called to prayer at the sunset, as their chant enveloped the city, so he would sit next to her bedside, telling her stories, reading her poetry, asking and begging for her to wake up. Eventually he would give up and kiss her forehead when she did not respond, falling asleep in the chair by her bed. _Their_ bed. Morning would come, he would kiss her forehead and bid her a good day before leaving to tend to his business. After a month had passed this way, he was sorely tempted to send word to mages might know something, there might be a bit of knowledge somewhere among Theirin's court-but he stayed his hand and sent no message. She was their Hero, and they would surely take her away. He could not bear losing her again, had given her up once, lost her at Denerim...never again.

* * *

"Zevran?"  
"You know, lovely Sylrien, if I had thought you would be joining me on this watch, I would have prepared wine and flowers and perhaps serenade you. It is rare that I receive such a honor like this, you being away from the side of your young knight, yes?"  
He heard her approaching well before she had even spoken. Though she had a light step, trained from years of thinking on her feet in one of those hovels they called Alienages, he had been trained longer and it was near impossible for anyone to truly get the drop on this Crow.

"I...I had wanted to talk to you of something you said before...What you said about your mother?" She sounded so earnest, with her light touch on his shoulder, the gentle prodding. He flinched at the subject and she drew away, mistaking her touch for the cause. He swun around on the ball of his foot, sweeping an arm around her waist. "Talk, talk! Always we talk, we are adventurers, no? We should be involved in action! And..." He winked at her. "I know of a great many actions two elves such as ourselves can take under the stars in a moonlit forest-" Sylrien laughed, pulling away from him, feigning mock hurt. Her laugh always amazed him, after seeing her covered in blood and gore, seeing her pale and tremble at the horrors they faced on a near daily basis...Hers was a good laugh. "Oh no, Aranai. I have made that mistake with you once before, and I shall not mistep again!"  
"You wound me so! You cut me with your sharp tongue! You danced so well, what can I do but hope for an encore?"

Sylrien gave another soft chuckle, but she shook her head. She wet her lips, those lips he had seen parted in such moans, ached to see again in such a way. "I wanted...just wanted to tell you that my mother, she was the same-Dalish, I mean. She had run away much...much like your mother to marry my father. I just wanted to tell you that..." Syl bit her lower lip, glancing up at him. "She died, too. I mean, I remember it so clearly...I watched as she...It was..." She stood straight.  
"I just wanted to thank you for sharing that with me, for telling me. I know, I know that it is not something you would speak of lightly, and you honor me with your trust. I hoped I could show you mine by telling you of Adaia."

He ran a hand through his hair, untangling it and brushing it from his shoulders. "Then my thanks, Syl. But if you really wished to thank me..." The corners of his lips turned up into a smirk and he caught her hand, kissing the inside of her wrist. She widened her eyes and tried to pull free, but his grip was iron. Then she did not resist, and he continued to pull her closer to him. His other hand slid from her cheek to the back of her head, fingers winding around dark strands of hair, tugging on them slightly so she would gasp and tilt back.  
"Then I think you know of much better ways of thanking of me." He half whispered, half growled. His lips brushed against hers as he spoke, his tongue darting out to lick at her lips lightly.

"Zevran..." Sylrien whispered softly..."Zevran...." It sent a chill up his spine, hearing her say his name like that. He felt her nails digging into his arms as his hand slid down her back...

"Zevran.." She murmured softly, pulling away even as her hands kept a tight grip on his shoulders.

"Zevran..."


	5. Chapter 4: The Dangers of Reminiscing

**Authors Note: Hallo! As always, don't own Dragon Age nor do I claim any use other than pure entertainment of its properties, etc, etc. The next few chapters are 'move alnog chapters' and for that reason, are quite shorter than they should be. We are still with our favorite Antivan Rogue, and I hope you enjoy this rather quiet chapter. Please Read and Review and let me know what you think, and thank you to my friends and beta-readers for keeping me on the right track. **

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**Chapter 4**

The warm rays of the Antivan sun woke him. Like every other night he had fallen asleep in the chair next to her bedside. It had been a pleasant dream, a memory of a stolen kiss in the Brecilian Forests. She had to have realized how right it felt, how her body fit against his like a puzzle piece, how they tasted, how they kissed...But like always, she would break the kiss before it threatened to go any further, and retreat to the tent she shared with the human knight. Maker's balls, they shared much more than being Wardens did! They were elves, their histories, their parents...Damnit, he had her first, back when he first joined their camp, back when he first saw her for the young frightened thing she was, needy and fragile. She had shown him mercy and he had intended to do the same, coaxing the story of her failed wedding to another elf, how a different sort of blood had been shed that night and she had emerged a changed woman. He remembered her bitter laugh at the irony of the situation. How in both cases a human had taken her from her home, changed her. When Sylrien spoke of it, there had been a gleam in those grey eyes of her. It had reminded him of cold steel, of justice.

Zevran had wooed her with with words he had spoken to many a woman before, inviting her to his tent and teaching her what being a woman really meant. Afterwards, when the panting had subsided and as she lay quivering and gasping, her head swimming in the first experience of unadulterated bliss, when the pain had lessened and turned into unbelievable pleasure, she asked him about love.

Something had passed between them, some spark, and her question woke him to the fact she felt it too. That was dangerous, so he told her exactly what he thought about love in his coldest voice. He saw her flinch, felt her tense up in their embrace, but still he kept talking. When he had finished, when he finally loosened his grip around her, he watched with an empty sense of satisfaction as she dressed quickly and left. She did not come back to his tent the next night, and she took the late watch for the rest of the week. They had arrived at Redcliffe soon after, and that boy, that human had been at her side constantly, showing her the village and the castle. Zevran noticed how each time he tried to talk to her, there was always someone else, someone who would ask something of her before they could actually speak. He wasn't sure what he would say to her, but he had to say something to smooth over the rift that he had created between them. She did not deserve such treatment, he had been too cruel.

Wynne, Leliana, and Alistair were the worst of them as her self appointed guardians from the 'wicked Crow'. Morrigan and Sten had no patience and paid no mind to their little intrigues. He was certain that when she first began to share a tent with the knight, their vigil had ended. When he was finally able to talk to her unharassed, she had smiled softly and told him she did not begrudge him anything, thanked him for the experience. Syl had leaned over and pecked his cheek in a chaste manner, apologizing to *him* for her actions. While he laughed and called her a seductive minx, as they had carried on as if they were the closest of friends, ("No, we are friends," Sylrien had told him, before showing him a pair of leather boots, Antivan boots, purchased from who knows where. "You are far from home, as I am. Neither of us can return. Let us share in our misery together?" He had smirked, told her about other things they could share to dispell such sour moods. He immediately saw that he had cut her with such a remark, the wound was still fresh. He hastily apologized and gave her much praise for the thoughtful gift.) he could still not forget that electrictiy, that chemistry that surged through them both at every intimate touch.

Still he knew she had not been with Alistair yet. One could tell when a boy (how could he have ever been called a man caused Zevran great wonder) like Alistair had his first woman, and it was some time later that he saw that bounce in his step or that look in his eye. That was when he had suggested various roots and herbs to enhance the boy's performance. Perhaps Alistair had picked up on his true intent- they would have not had their intended effect, Zevran would have made sure of that - because he seemed so intent on not hearing Zevran. Sylrien had the luck to be passing by them as they trudged down the road, and quipped that "Not all men are loud lovers, Zev..." Before continuing to speak to Sten at the head of their 'train'. Alistair had blushed and Zevran could only laugh. He wondered if she even realized how her smart mouth only kindled the flames of jealousy he felt for the human.

But there was no use in dwelling on the past. She was with him now, and he would find a way to wake her, and then he would make her happy and put all thought of human kings far from her mind. As he went about preparing for a long day of reviewing contracts and accepting the bids on new marks, he marveled at how management suited his new-found role and caretaker. It allowed his people the chance to compete against each-other and aspire to...some greater heights than they might if he were still interested in getting his hands dirty. Another smirk spread across his lips as he bound his hair in a neat braid, drawing aside the curtain to their bedroom, looking out over his ward.  
"My dear, I go to bring home the bacon, or whatever type of dead animal you would prefer-"

She was not there. The sheets lay twisted in heap at the foot of the bed and a pair of his boots were missing. His eyes widened and he started for the door nearly shouting as he opened it. "Did you see her leave? Did you see a woman walk past here?!" He grabbed at the guards collar as others peeked their heads out of windows and doors. "Where did she go? I swear that I will...." The hiss of a dagger escaping its sheathe cut the sounds of the busy street, soon held to a hapless man's throat. "I...I....I...." The thug stuttered, pointing past Zevran's shoulder. "We didn't know we had to stop her, boss..." Another stammered. 'We've seen lots of women leave your place..." The scene drew more spectators, more of his people left their apartments to see what had riled their leader so. Suddenly a voice cut through the crowd, crystal clear. "Zevran?"

There she was, in broad daylight, standing in front of him and looking at him with those grey eyes. "You were...you were asleep. And I was so hungry, I had left to get some food-" There she stood, in oversized boots and a costume fit for a noblewoman. What she was saying did not matter. She was speaking and looking at him and reaching out to him with one arm as she held a basket in another. He took her hand with his own, grabbed her wrist with the other and pulled her, no, he yanked her to him. Sylrien yelped out in surprise and in pain, but he didn't care. He held her tightly, buried his face in her hair and did not speak for a long while. Finally his grip loosened and she drew back. Looking up at him with a detached sense of wonder, she began tracing his features with her fingers. "I....I know this face. But it has changed somewhat. Zevran, what has happened? Where am I?" Her whispers were laced with uncertainty and concern, concern for him. The corners of his lips twitched upwards into a smirk.

"You've forgotten so soon, lovely Sylrien? We were madly in love and ran away to the farthest corners of the earth-well, we were going to, and then my boots wore out and you complained about the heat so we changed plans and decided to have a go at domesticity among the cabals of assassins and thieves and the like in fair Antiva. Woman, I swear you will be the end of me!"


	6. Chapter 5: Waking Up

**Authors Note: Please, this chapter is rated T, for suggestive sexual scenes. If the powers that be think it qualifies for an M rating, please let me know. That being said, finally, Zevran does what he really does best. Thank you friends and beta-readers for your opinions, comments and suggestions, for making sure that this all flows right. It's a shorter chapter, but sometimes the most important things are actions, rather than words. **

**Chapter 5: Waking Up**

Twelve years, she thought. She had been dead for twelve years. Looking at her hands, she could only marvel at the fact that once, these hands had wasted away to bone. How much of the world had changed in so long a time? Zevran had filled in some of the blanks, informed her of many things: Alistair as king in Ferelden, the passing of Wynne, the whispers of an invasion from Sten's people...She had seen the changes etched on his face. His sharp features had been dulled slightly by time, giving him an almost noble coutenance...A smile grew across her lips. She had teased him about it, being an older man. He had laughed and swung his arm around her, scooped her into a tight embrace. But strangely enough, he made no further move, no whispers of things he could do to her, no stolen kisses or suggestive glances. Instead he never left her side for those first few days. When he grew tired he would lead her wordlessly to his bed, sink onto the mattress with his arms wrapped around her tightly. "I don't want to wake up..." He would say, "And find you gone. And find this all a dream. Please, just stay with me." She couldn't refuse him, so the long evening hours passed with her idly stroking his hair, his head nestled in the crook of her shoulder. Only on the fourth night did her eyes finally grow heavy, and she gave in to sleeps embrace only after he assured her that there would be a morning after, that she would wake up. He wouldn't let anything prevent her from doing otherwise. It had been...pleasant.

But the warm days in Antiva had to end. The more time she spent in the waking world, the more she realized exactly what had happened and what she must do. On the fifth day, as her eyes opened to see him looking down at her, his fingers idly tracing embroidery on her sleeve, she could only shake her head. "You know this cannot last. I must go home." He flinched at her words, gripping her arm and squeezing it slightly. "Is it so unpleasant here? Anything your heart desires, I can give you. I am a man of some considerable means now." He smiled, though he knew it to be a futile effort as she replied. "No, there is business left unfinished...you know I should not be here. We both know this. My soul was destroyed, Zevran- bound to the Archdemon's. If I am whole and living...Each passing moment I realize that I was a side effect of the witch's plans. She..." Shaking her head, Sylrien rolled on her back, looking up at the ceiling. "There is much I must explain. The **only** thing I am sure of is that I am here because Flemeth wanted the essence of an Old God. To bring it back, she had to bring me back..." Looking down at her arms, she marveled at the smooth skin. Sylrien knew that a short time ago, they had been riddled with strange carvings and symbols. Where did they go? What purpose had they served?

* * *

Zevran watched her quietly. He knew it couldn't last forever but he had hoped it might. He did not fear the journey back nor did he mind that this was another grand quest of hers. The only thing that gave him pause was the idea of her being in _his_ presence again. These past few days he had felt something grow between them, something sure and real and wonderful. She was cruel, with all her soft smiles and embraces, cruel to give him such attentions so freely, yet deny him the taste of her lips. While it had been beyond wonderful, it had been also been torture to have the flames of passion fed by every touch of hers, yet go unquenched. But he knew for sure that no matter what transpired between them, he would go with her. That had never been in doubt.  
"Then one more day, Syl. Let us have one more day in this fleeting dreamworld, and then we will have the grand adventures to save the world and stop your witch. Just one more night..."

Sylrien looked at him for a few moments before nodding, leaning over to press her lips against his. The forward gesture drove him to press onward as his hands tightened around her arms, pulled her closer as their tongues met. "Then wake me up." She murmured, ordered him as they shifted about on the bed. This was meant to be, this was supposed to happen, he was sure of it. "Wake me up..." Again she spoke, needy and demanding. He flashed back to their first encounter, years ago when they had first shared a bed. His hands delighted in the expanses of skin exposed by the cut of her dress - how could she have ever worn leathers when silks suited her so much more? As her nails dug into his shoulders, he was reminded of where he was and who he was with. He felt her hands travel down his body, tug at straps and lacings as he tore away the silk that acted as a barrier between them. He explored her body with his hands first, then with his mouth, delighting in the sounds she made, urging him to drive her to gasp and moan his name. Her lips, he decided, as he nibbled and licked at her ear, were made for saying his name. If they were to leave Antiva, he would brand this night into her memory, just as he would commit her body to his. Zevran was a man dying of thirst, and she was the only thing that could save him. All other thoughts were driven from his mind as they finally joined and lost themselves in eachother. The day passed into night and still they could not part. Few words were spoken besides cries of names and single words to spur the other on, but so much seemed to be said. When she finally collapsed against his chest, covered in sweat and worn out from their daylong exertions, as he felt her heart beating and fluttering against his own....He'd follow her to hell and back. Even hells that smelled of wet dogs and rotting garbage, no matter how many witches or boy-kings stood in his way.


	7. Chapter 6: Denerim

**Authors Note: Hello everyone! In celebration of Chapter 5 getting our story to over 300 views and 9 Reader Reviews, I've decided to post this chapter early. It's alright, I'm currently on Chapter 12 right now...and I hope it's been up to snuff for you all so far! So as always, thanks to my beta-readers, to my friends and game continuity checkers, and everyone who has written their review and offered their opinion so far. As always, thank you Bioware!**

**Chapter 6**

As warm as Antiva City had been, Denerim was cold and wet. This was not unusual for Ferelden's capital city. It was not unusual for two figures that stood on the deck of a boat at the docks. No, these figures were unusual to the city. One was an elf dressed in elaborate Dalish leathers: long trousers and a corset like torso guard buckled into place, leaving his shoulders and his arms bare. He had a shock of whiteblond hair, brushed past his face. At his side there was a much more subdued, diminutive, feminine form. Her face was obscured by a veil, revealing only her gray eyes, the tips of her pointed ears, and offered a peak of raven hair. She wore a robe of black linen, closed tightly over her body like a shield from the cold air. With her hand in his, they walked down the streets; the crowds parted for them, sensing somehow that these two strange creatures were important. Was this some sort of Dalish royalty, as evidenced by the man's strange attire? Were they from another kingdom of elves, some undiscovered country?

They were of course, none of the above. These streets were as familiar to Sylrien as the veins on the back of her hand. She had grown up here, survived in the ghettos and back alleys. Though she no longer had to scrounge about for survival, beg for bits of coin or serve drink for a copper bit or two in the decaying establishments that permitted elven labor, Syl often found her eyes wandering over familiar haunts. To act so proud and bold in a place that forced one into a life little better than slavery, it was unnerving.

She was certain that that Zevran could feel her anxiety growing with every step towards the palace. That must be why his grip around her waist grew tighter as they walked. If he had not been there, surely she would have crumpled into a heap by now, sobbing and running back to the boat or to the hovel that she had grown up in in the alienage. Would Alistair...would he love another by now? He had to marry, they had discussed this, had to father a legitimate son. The Hero of Ferelden would have been content to be little better than his whore. But as degrading as that might have been, she would have done it to wake to those amber eyes every morning, to feel the stubble of his cheek scrape against her face. Just imagining having those rough hands hold her tight to him, threaten to break her in half with the intensity of...of...Sylrien stopped suddenly, her hand clutching her chest, over her heart. Zevran, the man who had guarded her, who had shared her bed and reminded her of the fleeting pleasures of the world - he stopped and drew an arm around her shoulders. He tilted her face towards him, nuzzling her cheek softly. "Woman, has it been so long since you last walked? I know that our past nights exertions might have rendered any other creature limping, but I thought a Grey Warden was made of stronger stuff, no?" A nervous chuckle left his lips as she leaned against him for a moment longer before finally standing upright and speaking, "No, no, I am fine...Just...overwhelmed. " She had heard the hitch of fear in his voice, and in that moment knew he feared losing her to the king. It was in vain; though, her heart had been Alistair's long ago, and death could not break that bond. No, only golden, hazel eyes regarding her as a stranger could do such a thing. She had seen horrors in the Dead Trenches, massacres and abominations and grave betrayals, but this was the only time she could remember being so afraid. Squeezing Zevran's hand, she mustered the will to continue on.

* * *

To Queen Valethe, it seemed that all the sorrows and misfortunes of the world rested on the shoulders of her husband. As courtiers and citizens of the realm came to petition him for aid, she could see his shoulders droop, watched as his brows furrowed and saw wrinkles form. Since the Tomb of the Warden had been vandalized, he had changed. His hair seemed to have grayed overnight, and the jovial, laughing thing he had been vanished. It hurt her to see him this way, but there was nothing she could do. Whispers reached her that instead of making merry in taverns with his Dwarven General at his side, he drowned himself in tankards of ale and unseemly women, singing halting phrases of some elven song. Her husbands generosity towards the elves was unprecedented, and when the bannorn of the alienage - no, it was no longer called an alienage. It was now the "Elven Quarter." The bannorn or hahren or whatever it was that led them had stormed into the court once news had spread, demanding answers for why their hero, the sainted daughter of their people, had gone missing and her resting place desecrated. The redheaded elf had hurled rude words at the king, accusing him of the old attitudes and prejudices before just stopping short of promises of revolt. When the guards had tried to remove her on the Queen's demand, the Dalish ambassadors had begun to draw blades and Valethe was certain that blood would be shed and she had cried out for help and - and the king barked an order for the guards to stand down. He stood and walked to the Elf, whispered something into her ear as he took her hands into his. He then led her to a council room with the Dwarven General following the pair. The uneasy silence that had settled over the court was broken about fifteen minutes later, and when Alistair came back into court she could swear that her strong husband had been weeping.

She had seen him speaking to his spymaster later on, and noticed the absence of certain servants and courtiers afterward. Valethe surmised these had been the shadowy spies and assassins that every royal court had, and they had been sent to discover what had become of the remains of the Warden or at least who had taken them...She paid it all no mind, her only concern was that Alistair's infrequent visits to her bedchambers became even rarer. With a healthy prince and a second child on the way, his obligations to her were over. Still she was a woman, and valued the companionship of her husband. Prince Duncan (I shall name him after my father, he said. Shouldn't that be Maric, then? Oh, you're right Valethe, nevermind. I just like the name...) was nearing his tenth year, and he was really the only interest his two parents shared. He had a shock of red hair and the amber eyes of his father. It was hard to believe he was her son, there seemed to be so little of her in him.

It seemed that the thoughts of both monarchs had drifted elsewhere. After petitions came introductions, and the list seemed unending. Valethe would nod and smile while Alistair seemed off in thought, occasionally speaking to the smelly dwarf that was the general of his armies. But then after what seemed an endless list, there was a name that caught the attention of both monarchs.

"...presenting the leader of the Antivan Crows to their majesties..."

Alistair and Valethe sat up immediately at the announcement of their latest guest, if for very different reasons. To Valethe, the Crows were an organization of assassins, and who ever heard of assassins being so obvious? The sound of blades unsheathed were heard amid the sharp laughter of a strangely dressed elf.  
"Arls, sweet Arlessas, lords and fair ladies! I did not expect such a hostile welcome in the court of my old traveling companion! Though, I must admit I do not think I was your favorite, Alistair."  
For the first time in what seemed ages, Alistair sat up, alert and tense. Color seemed to grow in his cheeks, and Valethe saw something of the man he used to be. The elf - a blond creature - continued.  
"I have heard that Ferelden has been known to honor past treaties and agreements- that their king is very wise and fair...that if his attentions should falter, that his lovely bride also had a deft touch with such things." Another chuckle. The elf seemed so sure of himself, in control of the entire room.  
Alistair smirked softly. "Perhaps, Zevran. But why are **you** here?"

"No pleasantries made? Barbarians! I am crushed, my king. No warm greetings?"

Zevran smirked, drawing out and savoring the anticipation that caused the humans form to grow tense. "See, I come not for my own desires, but for this bewitching creature, this rose of a woman. See, she had been very persuasive and I cannot resist her charms, nor her pleas. 'Take me to the King of Ferelden!' she says, and I am but a lowly servant, dedicated to fulfilling the whims of my goddess." he winked and gestured to the veiled figure at his side, who seemed to flinch. It was the first time Alistair had noticed her, and he could not help but grin widely.

"Aha. So someone's finally been able to make you feel something, rather than serving to be felt up? I thought you were the kind of man that couldn't be tamed, Zevran. Bring her forward then, she must be some sort of witch or something to accomplish such a feat. Though if you wanted me, Lady, I'm afraid that I'd lack the refined technique of your elf, and am quite happy with my wife."

The woman whispered something to Zevran that caused his expression to turn dark and even cruel before she approached the king. She brushed past the elf, taking sure steps towards the throne while her eyes remained downcast. Kneeling at the lowest step that led to the dais where the king sat, she began to remove the veil, began to push back the hood. Alistair leaned forward to get a better look at her, to listen to what she had to say. He felt Valethe's hand wrap around his own. The first thing he saw was raven hair that seemed fall to her shoulders like a dark cloud. The second thing he saw were her lips, lips that began to move. "Please..." (Please don't leave me, those lips had once said. She had sunk to the floor, clinging to his leg, pressing her face against his armor. "Please don't leave me. I want to stay with you... let me be your mistress, your whore, just Alistair, don't leave me. Don't toss aside our love) "Please my king, I have come as a Grey Warden to seek your aid against a great evil."

He stood slowly at the bent figure that knelt before him. He must be dreaming. But he sure as hell never dreamed of Zevran before. Must have been that red tomato stuff that had been liberally applied to the chicken. It had been sweet, at first bite, but then a few moments later the spiciness overwhelmed him. Eh, he didn't like the cook much anyways. And he was king so he could very well have him executed for his deceptively spicy salsa. Sometimes it was good to be the king. He just...had to see. His hand found her hair, felt her shrink back slightly from his touch. "Look at me..." Alistair whispered. "Are you some demon sent to torment me?" She looked up at him, and when he saw those gray eyes, he knew this was real. In twelve years he was never able to get those eyes quite right in his dreams. Sylrien was here, in front of him. Living and breathing.


	8. Chapter 7: A Private Reunion

**Authors Note: Well, as always thanks to my lovely beta-readers. Here we finally get a good look at Alistair after so many years ago. As always, please read and review. I can't tell you how much it means to me to know folks enjoyed the story, what folks think of it...etc. We're back in a 'build-up' stage, setting the pieces for fun to be had in later chapters. I just hope that I captured the voice of Alistair, that slick, smooth, sexy voice....*drools***

* * *

**Chapter 7**

She had thought Zevran's face had looked different after her long sleep. But he could not prepare her for the shock of seeing Alistair on the throne, aged beyond his years with a striking woman large with child at his side. Sylrien had been staring at him as Zevran carried on with his introductions. Only when he mentioned the word 'rose' did she wake from the reverie. 'That was cruel,' she thought. She knew he had said such things so that Alistair might realize what he had said of her, not knowing who it was. The elf's jealousy stung sharply, but she had to forgive him. If he loved her, then simply being here in the same room as man Zevran knew she loved was also cruel to him. Still, nothing could prepare her for actually being so close to Alistair, yet so far away. When his hand touched the top of her head as he spoke, she wanted to reach up to take that hand and press it against the side of her face. Sylrien remembered every callused fingertip, the lines and ridges of his palms. She wanted to kiss his fingers, throw herself into his arms...but the silence was broken by the clearing of Zevran's throat. The reunited wardens snapped their heads in his direction, and he made a bowing gesture. Alistair was the first to speak, regaining some sense of decorum. "Warden, Zevran, my council room. Follow. My queen, tend to the rest of the introductions?" He turned on his heel without looking at her, his cape trailing behind him. Zevran was the first to follow, and it took Sylrien several moments to regain her wits before she hurried after the two men.

She felt eyes on her. Though Alistair had recognized her, few others in the main hall did. But news would spread fast, and if what she had seen in Denerim was any indication of what people thought of her...she would soon be mobbed. But right now that didn't matter. All that mattered was the back of the tall human that walked in front of them. 'Say something,' she pleaded silently. 'Be angry, be happy, please, say something...' But still silence reigned over the trio. As they entered the smaller room, notable only for a large table with many chairs, she saw his jaw clench, his eyes eyes narrow. He was turning something over in his head, thinking - then with the speed and fluid grace of a cat, Alistair had Zevran by the neck, lifting him off the floor. "You did this!" He shouted, gauntlet-clad hand closing over Arainai's throat, pinning him to the wall, several inches off the floor. "I should have known you did this! How did you take her from the tomb! How could you? I swear I will have the life stripped from you..." He growled, towering over the elf, nearly spitting in his face. "You stole her away, nearly caused a revolt you little grave-robber! What have you done? What have you-!" As Zevran's eyes fluttered close, as he tore at the hand that was slowly crushing his windpipe, Alistair suddenly relented, dropping the elf to the floor and turning away from him.

Alistair's anger soon melted away, and he could only slump back into one of the chairs, drained and ashen. Then he felt her soft hands cup his face, tilt his head up hers. She stood between his legs, murmuring soft sounds of comfort as the other elf gasped and swallowed lungfuls of air. "My love, my darling - I will tell you everything that I know, but he is not at fault...." Sylrien lowered her voice, cradling his head as he wrapped his arms around her. The last time he had seen her she was cold and lifeless. Now she was here, warm and soft, and he could even hear her heart beating. The sound thundered in his ears, a reaffirmation of the impossible. She was alive, Thank the Maker, somehow she was alive. It was like everyone in the world had disappeared, except for them . He paid no mind to the hall full of courtiers and nobility that surely wondered what was going on; he did not pay attention to the blond elf sulking in the corner. Sylrien was here, siting in his lap, talking to him. It was a monumental effort not to scoop her up in his arms and whisk her away, a monumental effort to actual listen to her, rather silence the words she was saying by kissing her - by making up for twelve years worth of kisses. And touching, Maker, the touching! Gifts, flowers, strawberries-he had seen her eat strawberries once, at Redcliffe. It was the most magnificent sight he had ever seen, how she delighted in their sweetness, how the juice dripped onto her lips and stained them red, how she had sucked-wait. What was she saying? Crazy witches destroying the world in possession of souls of Archdemons. Not strawberries. He should not. Think. Of. Strawberries.

He watched her choose her words carefully, look away and wince at painful memories. Slowly she started speaking, "After...After Denerim...The last thing I remember is being put underneath a deep sleep. It surely was a spell, and she would have had me trapped in the Fade forever, living yet not so. I do not know how I escaped, how I woke up..." Her voice trailed off into silence as she frowned, still turning over the possibilities in her mind. "I woke up in Antiva, with Zevran sleeping-" He raised an eyebrow in alarm before hugging her tighter to him. "-Sleeping at my bedside. He had taken care of me, watched over me. He told me it had been a month?" She looked to the elf, who Alistair finally remembered being in the same room with them. Zevran nodded though he kept his eyes away from the pair. "Yes, a month. And I spent a few days, a week or so-the time is all blurred...but I know what Flemeth did, so we came here. I knew you- I knew that we could find aid here, that if we had stopped an archdemon before, that it was with you and the others that we could stop her again. I don't know where she is...I just..." Syl took a deep breath. "This is all my fault. If I had not spared her life, if I had not tricked Morrigan, then this all wouldn't have happened. Our souls - mine and the archdemon's...we were intertwined, destroyed together. To capture the essence of the old god, she had to bring both of us back to life and then separate us. I...I..." Tears filled her eyes as she looked up at him. "I am sorry. I am so sorry."

* * *

To Zevran, things had gone about as well as he thought they could be. The woman he loved was currently locked in an embrace with another man who had just nearly choked the life out of him. And now she was crying and he could do nothing. Alistair had taken that duty upon himself. As she began to sob, he had begun to wipe her tears with his hands, shushing her and kissing her cheeks. Zevran couldn't look at it. If anything brought him pleasure out of this touching scene, it was that she had glossed over her stay with him in Antiva. She did not mention the long nights of passion, nights that turned into days. She failed to mention how they rarely left their bed on the long voyage to Denerim. She made him no promises, but it was not Alistair's name she had been crying out in passion. He had expected this to a degree, but it amazed him how much it _hurt_. Still, the sound of her sobbing bothered him like no other. Zevran stood up slowly, still rubbing his neck as she managed to quiet herself, resting her head against Alistair's chest as she continued to speak. "You don't understand...I know what she wants. There is only one thing...one reason why she would do such a thing. She doesn't want to possess it for some ritual component. She wants to _be_ it. She wants to take the powers of the old god - settle into whatever body the soul now resides in. This is always what she wanted - why she saved us at Ishal. Why Morrigan, why Morrigan came with us..." Zevran raised an eyebrow at this recent piece of news, and Alistair gave her a somewhat incredulous look. Reluctantly she left the human's lap, leaning against the table as she stared at some point on the wall.

"The night...the night before...Denerim, you saw Morrigan in my room. She wanted me to convince you to lay with her and conceive a child." Sylrien's voice went dangerously flat, her hand knotting into a fist. Alistair jumped up at this, shaking his head to try to dispel the thought, "What?!" Thoughts flashed in Zevran's mind of his brief encounter with Morrigan's mother as he took careful, measured steps towards the shaken woman. She continued to speak evenly despite her shoulders trembling. "You would have a fathered a child that would have had the Taint. The Archdemon's soul would have jumped to it, like a beacon, she said. No-one had to die as long as she had what she wanted, Morrigan would leave and you would have never seen it." Alistair seemed to recoil from her presence at the very thought as Zevran slowly approached her. Still she kept speaking, now to herself more than either of the men in the room. "...And I knew, I knew she spoke the truth. And I knew what would eventually happen. I had to die - I had to keep it from her...I couldn't let you have a bastard that - I couldn't share you again after knowing I would never...never be able to give you that, never be able to be with you knowing - I...I couldn't live with myself knowing that I had doomed the world to with my own....my own selfish desires - I...I..." Zevran had almost reached her, was reaching out a gloved hand to take her own.

Sylrien looked up at them both. Though her cheeks still glistened with tears, she was calm. "Flemeth would become Morrigan, as she has done so. That soul is now bound to something - someone. And in time, Flemeth will settle into that body. If Flemeth had died, Morrigan would have done the same, I think. They - she would become a god. And now she has the means to do so." 'And she had carried that burden alone,' Zevran thought, 'so she could save Alistair as well as the rest of us.' He turned Sylrien to face him, holding her tightly as Alistair sat there, still processing all this information. "And so..." Alistair spoke, breaking the silence that had settled over the room. "And so you sent me to the gates so I couldn't...Maker, you never intended to come back. You were going to-"

He couldn't speak anymore. Zevran watched him stand and move to the door. He looked sidelong at them both, speaking with a rather surprising and imperious tone of voice that Zevran would have never associated with Alistair. "There will be a banquet tonight in your honor. You have other duties you must see to before **we** go on this quest to stop Flemeth. Quarters will be provided for both of you, and whatever needs you have will be met. I must now tend to my duties as king before I set out with you." With that, he left the room. Zevran was impressed; He had grown into a man, and into his kingship. If Alistair wasn't the one thing that opposed happiness with Sylrien, he could almost respect the human.


	9. Chapter 8: Old Family, Old Friends

**Chapter 8**

There were whispers about the strange woman that had made herself known in the royal court - that she claimed to be the Elven Warden, the Tabris. Bannorn Shianni of the Elven Quarter of Denerim wasn't exactly sure what to think about all this. There had been no doubt her cousin was dead - before she was buried she had been laid out in the home she grew up in so people could come and pay respect to the dead woman. It had been twelve years since then. If she was alive, she wouldn't be suitable for viewing. The tomb had been repaired secretly, and lies spun about how her body had been returned in order to placate the elven population. Now it was as if Andraste herself had stepped down from the side of the Maker. It was strange reconciling the dirt-stained youth she had grown up with with the marble hero that lay in the Royal Park...but there it was. Now she walked through the streets of the Palace District with old Cyrion leaning on her arm. Since the death of his wife and his only daughter, he wasn't the same man. Then Soris had left to be with some human woman and that...No, she couldn't get angry at him. Sure, leave your sister and your uncle and your people to run off to Highever and...and...

Ugh! It didn't matter. That was the past and she couldn't begrudge him some happiness after Valora had been taken. She had never been found when the elves had confronted the Imperium about their illegal slave trade. With an army of Dalish behind them, and with the support of the allies of the Grey Warden, they had successfully negotiated a great deal of their brothers and sisters out. They even found Valendrian at the head of some underground resistance movement. He spent most of his time with Cyrion now while Shianni worked. Of course they weren't allowed to have any non-Denerim elves freed, and their negotiations had ensured that they would not seek the freedom of any other elves...But some few would slip away to the Dales, and despite the hands-off cooperation of the Elvhanen, the Imperium could never quite find their runaway slaves....

They soon arrived in the main hall of the palace. While the streets of the city were busy and full of life, this place was strangely quiet. King Alistair gave her a slight nod, gesturing towards a room off to the side. She spied a strangely dressed elf; she had seen him once before, with Syl. Wasn't his name....Zevran? He bowed to them both, holding open the door. Cyrion's grip was making her arm numb right now, but even she held her breath just a little.

And there _she_ was, speaking to the resident Dalish ambassadors. As the door opened all three of them stood, bowing - the two elves walked past them, heads still reverently cowed. Sylrien definitely looked good for a dead person. She was dressed in a silk gown the color of the ocean on a foggy day, her hair arranged plainly around her shoulders. She didn't wear any rings or any jewelry...she was just there, looking at the surface of a table as her mind wandered. As they walked towards her she finally looked up and her face seemed to light up. It was the happiest Shianni had seen her since her wedding day, before everything that had...

Sylrien didn't speak, didn't bow or curtsy. She practically ran up to them, throwing her arms around them both, and kissing their cheeks and hugging them. "My daughter...My lovely daughter..." Cyrion muttered, holding the woman tightly.

Shianni had to laugh a bit, this was all just so surreal. "Well Cousin, you sure keep things interesting." "I know! Gods above, I feel like my heart is about to burst out my chest...Shianni, I am so glad - Father..." Sylrien swallowed hard, finally managing to break away from them.

"Where's....where's Soris? Is he...No, he can't be..." Cyrion spoke before Shianni could reply, anticipating the scalding comment from the young Bannorn. "He's happy, in Highever with wife and many children. You'll see him soon enough. But Maker, look at you! Skin and bones. So pale! Come, we must go eat and put some meat on you!" Shianni had to smile as Sylrien beamed up at the old man, holding his hand. For a moment she wasn't the Hero, and Shianni wasn't a Bann. They were just themselves for a few brief seconds, where the world hadn't rained down grief and turmoil on them. Though most other elves had turned to the old gods and the old ways, Shianni whispered a small prayer of thanks to the Maker for this reprieve.

Alistair remembered a night at camp when he couldn't sleep. Sylrien had been on watch then and he found that he had grown accustomed to her body tucked in against his own. It was hard to sleep when she was not nestled against him, a warm body underneath a few layers of blankets. After tossing and turning for a couple hours he decided to see what she was up to. He tried to move quietly; he didn't want to wake anyone. As he neared the fire he heard a sound - someone was humming. Sylrien was humming. He smiled to himself, rubbing his arms to generate some warmth. A few steps further and his grin grew wider. Sylrien was humming to herself and dancing along with whatever music played in her head. Alistair didn't wish to stop her - she had a dreamy smile on her lips, and despite her eyes being closed, she did not make a miss-step. But he must have made some noise, maybe stepped on a twig, because she stopped suddenly, opening her eyes and looking in his direction. As he blushed, she blushed, kicking at the dirt. "I make for a poor guard, I think. I was just-" "Oh no!" He started, stepping out into the firelight. "Let me...let's see..." He awkwardly put a hand around her waist, one hand taking her own. "La de de da......" Alistair was no dancer, but he tried to sing along to a tune, stepping in-time to the music as best he could. She laughed softly and tried to move with him, but Templars made poor dancers, and Grey Wardens even more so. He had ended tripping up on his own feet, sending the both of them stumbling to the ground. But he couldn't complain about her landing on top of him. They lingered there for a moment and he watched a smile grow slowly across her lips. On instinct, he placed his hands on both sides of her face, bringing her down to him for a deep kiss. After they finally broke the kiss, she whispered softly, "We should dance more often."

She was dancing now, too. They hadn't spoken, and this was far from a campfire in the middle of the woods. Now she was dressed like a lady, practically floating on the floor of the main hall. Now musicians played for her, and her partner was her father. For this moment she didn't have to pretend, she didn't seem to have the burden of greatness she had carried since she first became a Warden. Alistair was happy he could give her that. He took his wife's hand, kissing the top respectfully before leading her out to the dance floor. He smiled slightly when he looked in Sylrien's direction; he saw her clink her glass with her cousin, taking another deep draught of wine before rejoining the other dancers. Though Alistair had never managed to master dancing after all these years, he wanted be the man on her arm. He shook his head as he looked back to his current reality. He spied Zevran out of the corner of his eye, lurking behind the table where Sylrien and the other elves sat, watching her dance as well. Alistair frowned at the elf, before giving his wife a reassuring smile. He needed to get Sylrien out of his mind at least for a brief moment but there was nowhere to look. Nothing new, nothing of interest....She seemed to wake him up from a long sleep.

Then all of a sudden the doors opened, and a loud voice boomed throughout the hall, causing the musicians to stop and everyone to look towards the newcomer.

And then _down_ at the newcomer. The dwarf blundered in, swearing and yelling, "Where is it? Where's the elf-girl?" Alistair grinned as he stood, gesturing the dwarf forward as the regulars at court bowed to the general. "Grey Warden! Let me introduce you to the general of Ferelden's armies: Shayle of House Cadash."


	10. Chapter 9: One Night in Denerim

**Authors Note: We had a scene with Zevran, now it's time for Hardened!Alistair (In more ways than one). Sex is rated T for Teen. Enjoy the party and the afterparty. Huge thanks to Lady_Fawna and others for making sure this story has all the kinks ironed out. Don't own Dragon Age, not using these for my own gain. As always, please Read and Review. It makes the Alistair happy. Very Happy. Like before, a shorter chapter.**

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**Chapter 9**

Sylrien was still reeling from all the excitement that had happened in the hall as she stumbled her way into the bedroom set aside for her. A smile seemed painted on her lips, her cheeks still flushed from so much wine. Shale - No, it was now Shayle - was a 'fleshy creature' now, having gone on some grand quest with Wynne after...after the Archdemon had been defeated. And what a figure she cut! With her hair a slate grey, bound in a tight bun at the back of her head, dressed in dark armor with bright blue eyes. She had been quite bothered when Sylrien hugged her, still uncomfortable at being so...being so...real? "It...you look unchanged." The dwarf said. "You look like you've been frozen as a statue since last time we parted. Hmmpf. Don't suppose you've come to realize the wickedness of birds - pigeons, doves, crows...?" Sylrien had to bite back a laugh, looking toward one 'Crow' she did have an affinity for. In the end Shayle had broken down and told her how glad she was to see the Warden still alive....She had been there when Sylrien had taken the final step to end the-

It was of no consequence. They had spent the rest of evening talking and drinking and it was all _wonderful_. Since arriving back in Denerim, she had wondered at the fate of her companions. Wynne had died a few years ago, Leliana's whereabouts were unknown, Sten was with his people, Morrigan - She winced. She knew what happened to Morrigan. Sylrien opened a window, inhaling the cool night air. It was good to feel the moonlight on her face, to hear the sounds of the city below. While she stood there, something moved in the corner of her eye. Immediately she jumped back, looking around for a blade. Someone had been waiting for her, a tall figure that had escaped her notice when she entered, cloaked in the shadows of the unlit room. He stepped into the light cast by the moon; It was Alistair, dressed in simple breeches and tunic.

"You look very beautiful, but you know that." At his words she relaxed, stepping forward and leaning against the windowsill.

"And you are still very handsome, but you knew that already."

The following silence hung thick in the few feet of space between them. Alistair was the first to speak, breaking the silence. "Are you and Zevran-...?"

"Please, after all this, is that is all you can ask me?" She snorted, beginning to move away.

A hand reached out and gripped her arm tightly. She tried pulling away, with little success. "Don't. Since I saw you, there are so many things I wanted to tell you. I want to do with you. Maker, woman...Do you know how hard it has been for me since you arrived? How hard it has been without you? I have had to suffer for twelve years, and you walk in on _his_ arm, knowing that _he_ was the one that was taking care of you while the very little of you I had left was gone?"

He looked at her, eyes hardened. Sylrien lifted her free hand to stroke his cheek, but he grabbed her wrist before her fingers could brush against his skin. She could practically taste the drink on his breath, and she couldn't help swooning a bit. His grip held firm. "Answer me."

"My thoughts have been of you since the first moment I woke, Alistair. Even before then, when I was lost in the Dreaming. I care for Zevran, more deeply than I should. But what he and I have - it is nothing, **nothing** compared to fire that has always burned in my heart for you." He did not let her know if he was satisfied with her answer. His grip on her arm and wrist stayed firm.

"Then why? Why did you choose to die? I would have slept....I would have had ten demon babies with Morrigan if it meant you being alive. Why did you promise me you were coming back?"

She managed to free herself from his grasp and snapped at him, "Do you think I wanted to die? Do you think I _wanted_ to leave you? We both hoped that Riordan would have...Gods above, Alistair. You had everything to lose, and I had nothing."

He tried to interject, "But you had me-"

She quickly cut him off. All traces of the evening's mirth had gone. Her cheeks were flushed with anger rather than wine. "Don't tell me what I did or did not have! I would have given everything up; I would have abandoned Ferelden to the Blight if it meant being with you! When all I could be was your whore that still would have been enough for me! I could not let you die, not when you could give the world so much! Look at the elves, see what they have become - all because I died and you became king. Look at what you have done for Ferelden, you have your heir and a woman you would not be shamed to be with..."

She sighed, smoothing her hair back as she paced around the room. All he could do was lean back against the windowsill, watching her. She was like a caged animal.

"When I saw Riordan fall, I knew it had to be that way. I couldn't let you have a child with Morrigan because it would...I know it would have had repercussions for you later. With this Taint, with this death sentence..." Sylrien spat the word out, hand clutching the fabric over her abdomen. "I was already a dead woman when they came for me in the Alienage. I just didn't realize it until I saw Riordan die. I promised you I was coming back because I knew you would follow otherwise. I knew you wouldn't let me die. Hate me for what I did, Alistair. I am no better than Loghain, but I would die a thousand deaths if it meant you would live for one more day."

Finally she stopped talking, sitting on the bed and looking at her hands despondently. "You remember the last days. The things we had to do. Things I did...I-I have many regrets, things I should have done - things I should not have done. My blood was a poison, and I could feel it burn in my veins, but I did whatever I could do if it meant victory...I-I..." Alistair quietly sat next to her, arms wrapping around her shoulders. She whined softly, pulling away. "Let me go..." He did not. Again she tried to slip away, put space between them. His fingers pressed so tightly into her wrist it began to truly hurt. "Please, just let me go...Let me go-"

He put a finger to her lips, leaning in to whisper in her ear. "I let you go, once. I will not do so again." Sylrien tried to fight him, tried to push him off of her, but he did not yield. There was only that persistent iron grip pushing her down, pinning her to the bed. He tried to silence her protests with his lips, hushing her with kisses. Her hands went underneath his tunic, pushing against the hard muscle underneath the fabric. She dug her nails into his skin, raking them down his chest; he hissed, but still he did not relent. His rough hands were everywhere now, and the rush of the familiar sensations caught her in a moan...

* * *

The first time they had lain together had been in a tent on the cold ground, so many miles from the palace. She only had a little more experience than he did, so they were both fumbling through the entire ordeal. Clothes were hastily pulled off and things practically torn open. While they had slept together before, it was in a chaste way - two bodies huddling close for warmth, protection from a world that seemed to be set against them. It was after the Deep Roads. He had stayed behind in case she should fall , so there would be at least one Grey Warden left to do what was needed. He remembered she had looked pale, shaken after her group had emerged from the tunnels. He did not ask her what she had seen in the Dead Trenches because he could tell by the look on her face those of her companions. (Well, except Shale. You really couldn't read a golem.)

He had spent the days of her absence nervous and pacing, always jumping whenever someone had passed by, wondering if this would be a messenger to tell him she had been lost. Alistair cursed himself for being so stupid, giving her just a rose and a vague declaration of his feelings. He could have done so much more, said something, anything else! Tell her that a part of him went with her into that damned place, make her take him with her...But she eventually came back, stone-faced when presenting the Crown of the Paragon to the Assembly. He had grinned when she chose the future king: Bhelen. When they had been in Dust Town, she told him it reminded her of the Alienage with the poverty and the crime. Anyone who even hinted at stopping it, and giving these caste-less an alternative...She had hoped that one day Ferelden's king would do the same. He had remembered that when he first sat in Ferelden's throne. He had remembered being appalled when he had visited Denerim's Alienage with her; somehow she had grown up here amid all that excrement and filfth.

So the night she came back from the Deep Roads, he had initiated their first coupling, stuttering and mumbling how he wanted to be with her. They set to it, and even though their first time had been miserably short-lived, both of them acted like sniveling children afterwards, swearing oaths of undying love and loyalty. After fifteen minutes they tried again, and that time - that time it was glorious. Tonight they were renewing those same vows with their actions, if not their words. This was no tender lovemaking; it was harsh and violent. It was all bruising kisses and bite marks, hoarse cries of passion and orders, yet it felt like that first time. He had thought her dead, and now she was alive and breathing and so _warm_. They were not young - they were both older, hardened by the world's cruelties - but tonight none of that mattered because they were together. Over, and over, and over again.

When dawn's light filtered over the entangled couple, he was the first to wake. Maker's balls he was sore. He was sure that his back was a tangled mass of red welts, he was sure his shoulder was still bleeding from where she had bit him. There also seemed to be a smithy hammering his brains into fine mush, and he knew he pulled a muscle in his thigh...But she was still there, nestled against his chest. There was a macabre pattern of bruises around her upper arms and her wrists. There was a little smile that played at her lips as she slept; he leaned his head down to place featherlight kisses at the corners of her mouth before settling back into bed. He wanted just a few more hours of this perfect moment, and he would get it. It was his right as a man, as her lover, as a king. Everything else could wait.


	11. Chapter 10: On the Road Again

**Author's Note: We might just be at the halfway mark! Woohoo! Time for some real action! Hope you enjoyed the Alistair smut, it's going to be a while till the demonic threesome - oops, did I just say that? Thanks to Lady_Fawna, and Lacey for making sure it all makes sense. As always, please let me know what you think of it and Read and Review!**

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**Chapter 10**

The morning was too bright, Shayle had an issue with her mount, and breakfast had been cold. None of it mattered to Sylrien right now. She couldn't help but smile to herself, like that cat that ate the canary. She had woken up to find that the night before was not a dream, and for the first time in a long time, she woke up to Alistair's hazel eyes. He was watching her, lazily tracing circles along her stomach with his fingers. She stretched and kissed him, before muttering something about more sleep. She had tried to roll over and gain a few more minutes of shut eye, but he had other plans. There was a bath to take...She could not remember the last time a bath had been that...that...

Sylrien blushed to herself, lost in her own thoughts while the others prepared. They weren't taking much at all; Travelling light and incognito was key here. They were to be simple travelers, rather than the Leader of the Antivan Crows, the King of Ferelden, the General of His Majesties' Armies, and the formerly dead Grey Warden Hero. It would be just like old times. Even though those old times had been in the face of a darkspawn Blight, it just felt...normal. She was lost in her thoughts till a gloved hand squeezed her shoulder. It was Zevran. The blush flared up in her cheeks as she looked away, causing him to raise an eyebrow. He was not naive; he would have known who had shared her bed the previous night. He didn't say anything about it though, just nudged her slightly. "There are people waiting for you, Warden. Best you not disappoint them?"

She offered him a weak smile before nodding, looking in the direction he gestured in. Shianni. Father. For a moment she felt an overwhelming sense of dread. She had not been able to...to...Taking a deep breath and tugging on her gloves, she made her way over to her family.

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There Sylrien was, dressed like some Dalish princess. The two Dalish she had been speaking to before they had seen her must have arranged for her to receive the armor. It had been made by the most skilled of the Elvhanen, meant to be the testament to their recovered craft. When their hero had mysteriously returned, it was only natural it was given to her. Plates of ironbark seemed fused to a flexible leather undercoat, looking more like woven leaves rather than cloth or leather. Shianni shook her head. She was going to leave again, and maybe she would die again. She certainly looked guilty enough. Despite the trappings of a noble warrior, she looked ashamed, meek as she walked to them.

"So, you're leaving again?" Shianni flatly stated. Cyrion did not say a word.

"Yes. There is...there is something I've left unfinished. Something I must see to before I even dream of really living." Sylrien spoke softly, looking down at her feet. This made Shianni even angrier. "You know, you've done this before. You've done this two times already! You can't just leave us to go on some quest to save a princess or something! You nearly killed your own father twelve years ago! You are always thinking of your-"

"Enough!" Cyrion spoke, his voice firm and strong. Both women looked to him. He stepped forward, placing his hands on either sides of his daughter's face. "She goes where she has to. I'll miss you Sylrien. Do what you have to do. Seeing you again was more than these old bones could've ever hoped for. You're a good girl, and you've made us all proud. I'm just glad I was able to tell you that. Don't forget that I love you, we both love you. In this life or by the Maker's side, we _will_ see eachother again. Now hug an old man before I change my mind and decide not to let you go out ever again?"

Sylrien nodded numbly, kissing both of her father's cheeks before resting her forehead against his. He looked down at her and nodded, hugging her a final time. She stepped toward Shianni, expecting a rejection, looking away. "Oh you...." The red-head exclaimed, giving an exasperated sigh as she hugged her cousin. Sylrien was taken by surprise, and slowly returned the gesture. "We'll...you'll owe me another bottle of wine after this. Since this whole Bann business, I've got expensive tastes too."

Sylrien grinned up at her, smirked softly. "Of course."

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So out of the gates of Denerim, along the Great East Road, came four travelers, all with a heavy cloak around them, obscuring their identities. After Denerim's skyline disappeared on the horizon, did someone actually speak. Sylrien pulled her hood back, glancing down the road they had traveled so far.

"So...where exactly are we going?"

Shayle hmmpfed loudly, pulling on the reins of her pony. "The Wilds. Figured that your witch might have left some trace of herself there. Then to Orlais - we've been hearing rumors about a mage in Val Royeaux. Matches the description of the Swamp Witch. She must know you're looking for her. That banquet was a bad idea. Your little public meeting was a poor idea. Fleshy creatures and their sentiments..."

"You seemed rather enamored with that wine, though. Haven't we been over this before, Shayle? It's alright to admit to liking things. Really, it is. No-one's going to think any less of you." Alistair spurred his horse on so he was even with the pony that Shayle rode. "You should have seen her when we introduced the concept of mattresses. Wouldn't lay down. Still needs only about an hour of sleep."

"Did I mention something about thinking about its - _your_ tender melon of a head being fragile enough to pop like an inflated pig's bladder...Your Majesty."

"Right. So I guess we don't mention the time we introduced you to cheese. And chocolate. Especially the chocolate."

"Indeed. Perhaps it is suited to this whole king business afterall."

"Why thank you, Shayle."

Sylrien smiled to herself. 'Like old times indeed,' she thought. It lifted her spirits after talk of Morrigan. No, she was Flemeth now. Morrigan was gone. "Eitherway," she added, her horse still traiilng behind Shayle's. "I am could ask for no better travelling companions. I-"

Alistair's horse stopped on the command of its master. He held up a hand for silence. There were no birds song anymore, the land around them was too quiet. Even the wind seemed to have died down. He curled a few fingers toward Sylrien, who nodded and brought her horse next to his. "Can....can you feel it?"

She furrowed her brows together. "Feel what?" He turned to look at her, something inscrutable in his expression. "Then...then it must be nothing." His horse paused as she moved forward, shrugging slightly. It must be bandits. They were a far ways away from sight of any settlement, and she could not feel the familiar alarm in the back of her mind that triggered whenever Darkspawn were close. One hand gripped the reins of her horse, the other rested firmly on the hilt of a slender blade at her side. The only other sound than that of her horse was the unsheathing of other blades as the others followed suit. The air was thick with unseen danger, their pace slow and cautious. Then suddenly Alistair dashed forward, catching the reins of her horse with one hand, jerking her forward as an arrow whizzed by her head. A cry of disappointment filled the air as she kicked hard at the sides of the horse beneath her to wrestle back control.

That was a sound she had nearly forgotten. A cry she knew as well as the sound of her own voice. There was a rustling of leaves, the heavy footfalls of many creatures. And the stench...Gods above, that _stench_. "Make ready!" She yelled as her companions begaim to dismount.

_Darkspawn._


	12. Chapter 11: Just Like Old Times

**Author's Note: Combat! Woot! Best stuff ever! Also, I'm not quite sure how Sylrien's issue works. I imagine it would be somewhat similar to what happened in The Calling book. I thought it up before I ever heard a book existed, and if you haven't read The Calling, neither have I. We're on the same page! As always, please Read and Review, and thank you to my lovely betareaders. Interested? Send me a message!**

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**Chapter 11**

It was like fighting blindfolded. She could still do it well enough, but every time she reached out, every time she tried to _sense_what was happening, she hit a wall. Sylrien kept her eyes opened and remembered that there was more to combat than semi-mystical forces. There was also the hard truth of a sharp blade in soft flesh. Also: Ranged need to go down first.

So she made a running sprint in the direction of the first arrow, her two curved blades trailing behind her. It was all a blur, ducking as a sword passed overhead, bringing her left sword in an arch that met with the creature's kneecap. The sword hit bone, causing her to pause just a minute before swinging it out and around, the sword finding a welcome sheathe in the base of a spine in front of her. She stepped on the back of the fallen _thing_, yanking her sword free as she brought the right blade up to meet a swing from another one of the creatures. There were about seven? No, eight of them.

Well, there were at least five or six left now.

And still the archer with the arrows!

The Hurlock that towered over her, one heavy sword to her two frail blades, grinned as he swung down again. And again. She managed to yank her second sword free, meeting his blade with her own crossed in an X. But with each heavy strike her arms were bent lower...lower...lower till the thing made a gurgling sound as tanned hand cupped its chin, a dagger flashing across its throat. _Zevran_. The elf grinned down at her, extending a hand to help her up. She took it, using the forward motion to propel herself into another sprint. He acted as a buffer, tackling another monster and unleashing his fury upon it as she sidestepped another. _That makes four, three..._ Alistair roared in the distance, she could hear the sound of something metal and heavy hitting something wet. _Two._ Then there was an unfamiliar, but distinctly female growl. The sensation of something being smashed reverberated in the ground beneath her. _One_.

One that was still a few feet away, tossing his bow aside to engage her with blades. She paused for a brief moment before pouncing on him, knocking down the archer with her own weight. The odor filled her nostrils, her sight was temporarily stained red. Her sword preceded her, pinning his stomach to the ground as she stabbed the thing with the remaining blade in her hand. Both hands wrapped around the pommel, pushing down and slashing at it, long since its blood began to cool on her skin.

Then it was still. She stood, wiping the blood off of both swords. Turning she waved a blood-spattered hand to her three companions. Zevran smiled at her...then his smile began to fade. She heard something, began to turn on her heel - Shayle began to bolt toward her, there was something hard and dark flying through the air...

Until the head of a black hammer collided with the skull of the Darkspawn creature that been moving to flank her. Sylrien heard the crunch, bits of bone and brain matter splattered onto her face.

Now they were all dead.

* * *

The next few days passed without incident. They established a watch at night, two shifts, with the sleepers foraging and managing their supplies in the morning. Unfortunately for Zevran and Alistair, the two ladies of their merry company did not exactly require that much sleep, so they tended to stay up together. Even more unfortunate for Zevran, Alistair and Sylrien had been spending most of their travelling time together, horses side by side as they discussed what had happened in low voices about their encounter with the rogue band of Darkspawn. Alistair kept giving her odd looks, and there seemed to be a permanent expression of unease whenever he caught Sylrien's attention. The foul mood of the elf permeated the rest of the party, so their trip was also silent. Zevran hated silence, too.

They were soon to be arriving at a small village though, and with that promises of sleeping in real beds and eating real food began to manifest themselves. Real baths, and maybe real women to take baths with. Oh, it wasn't so much that he was abandoning his feelings for Sylrien. Moreso that he was tired, and he knew his chances there were slim. Hmm. Maybe he was holding onto some sort of hope that after this quest business, he could convince her to go back to Antiva with him or that maybe he could follow her where-ever she went. Agh, _again_with the thick cloaks. They weren't made for these warm springs, but they really couldn't have the King of Ferelden and Grey Warden Hero walking around wearing signs...Or maybe they could...

His chuckle caught Sylrien's attention. She smiled back at him as she drew the cloth around her head, obscuring most of her face with the exception of her eyes. The laugh died in his throat.

So they rode on quietly to Lothering. He saw Alistair and Sylrien exchange glances before continuing through the gates. It was a small, picturesque village. Obviously it had seen some sort of battle in the past, among the freshly raised houses there were still burned husks of buildings. It was nothing special to a man like Zevran; it was an ordinary village out of thousands of ordinary villages. He saw Sylrien break away from their group, heading toward the Chantry building's courtyard. He cocked an eyebrow in her direction, and followed her...

As she dismounted her horse, so did he. She handed it off to a boy, pressing a coin in his hand. He followed her actions, gesturing to the boy that the sovereign covered his horse at well. He still had some residual belief in the Maker, but he knew that she had abandoned that system of beliefs long ago. He couldn't blame her, but it made her foray into the Chantry all that more odd, all that more _curious_. She must have known that he was following her, but she made no mention of it. Sylrien kept looking straight ahead. Some words were spoken with one of the Chantry's Templars, she showed him something she was holding. A bag of coin, perhaps? This was even more unusual. Why the large donation? Why here, instead of all the other perfectly fine little villages they had passed?

The Templar led her to one of the side rooms...Zevran stayed behind, loitering around the doorway so he could better keep an eye on her. Whenever someone passed he would bow his head and start up one of the verses from the Chant... "All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands..."

They would smile and nod at him, and then continue on their way. He kept his eye to the hooded figure entering the office. Sylrien stopped, dropped the bag as he heard her gasp. Something was wrong. Zevran looked up, shifting his weight on his back leg, a hand going to the dagger at his left side - the side away from Templars. She uttered a word - his ears twitched. He couldn't quite make out the sound. She held out her hand, drawing back her hood with the other. Then a softer, feminine gasp of someone he couldn't see - someone just out of his line of sight, then...

**POW!**

The Grey Warden was flying, falling back in a swirling mass of heavy cloth. The Templars and the Assassin dropped everything to see what was going on. However Zevran was faster in his investigation; not wearing a full suit of platemail had its benefits. He wove his way through the growing crowd, crouching over the sitting form of Sylrien. She was holding her hand to her lip; she was bleeding. He gritted his teeth, hand on her shoulder as he looked around them. Six Templars in plate against two elves in leather. This was not the sort of situation he liked. He nudged Sylrien, looking around as the half circle of Templars unsheathed heavy swords, pointed at the two elves. "Protect the Revered Mother!" One cried, followed by another voice that laughed softly at the situation.

"No worries! Lay down your swords! I told her I would be very cross with her if she died! Come, stand up my friend, this is truly a miracle of the Maker if I have ever seen one! Blessed Andraste, look at you! And Zevran, Zevran too?"

He knew that voice. Though he did not lower his blade, his head swiveled around to get a better look at the sole form that wasn't encased in metal. It was a soft, feminine form dressed in a pink Chantry robe. An elaborate pink Chantry robe.

"Leliana?"

* * *

She was **not**happy. Though the bath water was hot, and the pack of ice on her jaw comfortably cold, Sylrien was still far from pleased. She didn't know Leliana would be there. At **that**Chantry. In Lothering. Of course she would be at that Chantry! Sylrien groaned again, sinking deeper into the water. At least she was still in fighting form, if she wished to join them. Her right hook was proof enough. But it was good to know she was safe...even if her jaw had to suffer for that bit of knowledge. They were all downstairs now, and occasionally Sylrien could hear bits of Leliana's voice drifting from the main room at Dane's Refuge, along with the cheers from the grateful audience. She would have liked to join them, but there was too much weighing on her mind right now. Sylrien took a deep breath, and dunked her head beneath the surface of the soapy water.

A few minutes later she resurfaced, her hands working a lather of soap into her hair. At least tonight offered a few comforts. After she rinsed her hair, she began to twist her arm behind her, trying to wash her back. A hand took the rag away from her and began moving up and down her back. Sylrien jumped away, grabbing at some towel and snatching it to her chest, moving to the other side of the tub so she could face her guest.

"What? What? I thought I just might be of some help, hmm?" Zevran grinned widely at her, holding up his hands. She rolled her eyes, settling back to where she had been sitting, leaning forward so he might continue. "You shouldn't be in here. You know this." He chuckled, "I do many things that I really shouldn't, especially when it comes to Grey Wardens. But me, I am a glutton for punishment - I find that the pain these Wardens inflict tends to be the kind that leaves me begging for more. But I do have questions, and I have a feeling you, my dear, have answers." His hands were at her shoulders, kneading the flesh slightly before rinsing the washcloth. She let out a soft sigh of pleasure - a signal for Zevran to continue.

"The attack with the Darkspawn a few days ago...Something was wrong, was it not?" Sylrien's eyes opened and she glanced back to him. Her lips pursed into a tight line. "...Yes. Something was wrong. I was wrong. Something in me was wrong."

"What was it?" His hand found her hair as the other continued to wash her back. She squirmed slightly, trying to put off the answer.

"...I couldn't feel them. I...I should have been able to sense them, anticipate them - not just their presence, but even some of their attacks...I just wonder..."

The hands on her back stopped, and she looked over her shoulder. Zevran's eyes were closed and by the way his brows were furrowed together, he was in deep thought. Then all of a sudden his hands wrapped around her, lifting her out of the tub and into his lap despite the fact she was wet and now his entire front was soaked. He...hugged her. Then he brought his lips to her ear, whispering softly.

"This means you wonder if you are not a Grey Warden anymore? That you are not bound by their...traditions?" _The Calling_. He did not say, though they both thought of it. Maybe because she had died already, that maybe because (he did not know this) she had been bled dry in some ritual of Flemeth's...that maybe her blood was no longer polluted by the Taint...

"I don't know." She whispered back, hands resting over his own. "I am not sure. It...it might be. It might just be that the Taint has lessened, that I might...(live longer than thirty years) not hear it as clearly as others." '_That my womb might not be so polluted and corrupted that no life might grow there. That I might, be truly, really alive,' _she thought. She and Alistair had come to the same conclusion, and she had looked away when his face lit up at the suggestion. '_Could we really be together, then?' _he had asked, his eyes so wide and brown and _innocent_. '_I don't think it would be as simple as that,' _was her gruff reply. They said no more of it.

"Then, then why are you so sad? Would this news not make you happy?" Again Zevran with his questions.

Sylrien didn't have an answer for him.


	13. Chapter 12: Past Haunts

**Author's Note: Surprise! Anyways, cookies to whoever realizes what tribe Fenarel belongs to. Hope you enjoy, and we are moving ever closer down the road, even with unexpected roadbumps like this. Can't have ANGST ANGST ANGST all the time. As always, please leave a tip for your humble writer in the form of a REVIEW! and I really do hope everyone is enjoying the story. **

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**Chapter 12**

It had been more than twelve years since she stepped foot on this land, yet nothing seemed to have changed. Leliana had mentioned that strange stories had circulated around this spot; she had even been there a few times herself. The Templars had tried to exorcise the place, trying to dispel the uneasy essence that surrounded the abandoned hut. It was frozen in time, a portrait of its former owners. Sylrien was sure that she could still see footprints from the few times she had made her way here. The entire place unnerved her. She looked to Alistair, who nodded. No Darkspawn - small favor, that. The group had spread out evenly, trudging through the swamp. Each step was a struggle to pull free of the sucking embrace of the sludge underfoot. There were still dangers here.

The building was sturdy. She tried to the doorknob - it was not locked. Zevran stood flat against the wall as Sylrien nudged the door open, Leliana with her bow raised and arrow drawn behind Sylrien should something be there. Shayle and Alistair stood to either side of the pair of women, weapons ready. The door opened slowly, a slight squeal accompanying the rusty hinges. It was the same sound the door made all those years ago...-but the door only opened a few inches. No-one spoke as Sylrien advanced, administering a swift kick to the wooden panel, sending the door flying open and slamming against the opposite wall. The party quickly filtered in, the two heavily armored members advancing deeper into the second room.

Then they all sheathed their weapons. Nothing was there.

Sylrien stalked to the perimeter - no books, no bits of paper, no furnishings, no dead ashes in the fireplace, nothing! There was only a fine layer of dust on the floor. She could hear the witch's laughter echo in her ears. She looked up at her companions: Zevran leaning against the door frame, Alistair facing the fireplace, Leliana puzzled and already outside. And then there was Shayle. She looked around with her blue eyes, rubbed her chin and then swung her over-sized hammer over her shoulder. "Hmmpf. Guessed this might have happened. Swamp Witch must be in Orlais then. No use waiting, unless it has a better idea?" The sensible attitude of the Dwarf caused Sylrien to grin, following Shayle out the door. At least she had a plan.

But that plan didn't include nearly walking into an arrow. As they made their way out of the door, arrows suddenly planted themselves at their feet. As the familiar hiss of unsheathed swords filled the air, Shayle and Sylrien moved back-to-back as the others still inside the hut stepped forward to see what was going on. Shayle shot a hand out to block the others from leaving. "It's Majesty would do better to stay indoors at the moment. The Warden and I shall handle this...."

"Show yourselves!" Sylrien yelled. This was not a Darkspawn attack - Alistair would have alerted them, and rarely did the foul creatures display much in the way of cunning. There was movement in the underbrush, rustling of leaves. Night was falling fast and her eyes flitted about their surroundings, wondering if there was any way to exploit...any way to...

There was a statue of a dog, or was it a wolf? Facing away from the hut. Instantly Sylrien dropped her swords, holding her hands up in the air. "Shayle! The rest of you! Disarm. Drop your weapons _now!"_

She looked back out to the dense foliage that obscured their attackes. Please, please let her be right. Again she shouted out to the forest:

"Abelas! Sheuhn shah tauthau toetoi thuet. Sheuhn andaran atish'an. Sheuhn durgen'len, shem'len, elvhen. Abelas!"

Silence followed, and then a dozen or so figures emerged from the surrounding woods. "Who are you to speak our language? Our scouts saw you crossing the border. We do not permit outsiders into our woods except at the trading posts. What is your business here?"

Sylrien cut a glance at Leliana and Alistair, the former looked as if she had _just_remembered some important fact, the latter looked down sheepishly at his boots. She frowned before speaking in the direction of the voice. "I am a Grey Warden. I seek information of the witch who used to live here. I-" The voice cut her off again, one of the figures stepped forward and moved his hood back. It was a Dalish elf, with dark green eyes set in what seemed to be a mask inked over the top half of his face. Sylrien bowed her head in deference as he began to speak.

"This place is Setheneran. The Veil is weak here and dark things have been known to prowl these grounds. We will bring you to our settlement, but the durgen'len and the shem'len must go blindfolded. We do not permit their kind to know the trails and roads we use within our lands."

Shayle was stepping forward, she could hear the intake of breath about to precede some comment then heard Alistair begin to move forward to protest , but she raised her hand to silence them both. "We will abide by your rules hahren, lead on."

* * *

When they had first encountered the Dalish years ago, she had explained the reason for the group she was taking with her. They were both going, she said, because the Dalish would be kinder to them, when and if they found them. Zevran couldn't shake the feeling there was another reason she had chosen him to come with her. Even he felt it; that boyish fantasy of running off to the Dalish camps was tearing itself from the recesses of his memory to emerge in the forefront of his mind. She was smiling more often than she had been; even in the past few nights her recreational activities with Alistair had been...louder than usual. He didn't have to ask if she had one point entertained the very same idea. It seemed every city Elf at one point in time thought about running away from the human lands to rejoin their wild brethren.

That time had come and gone for him a long while ago - now he was sure he was better off Antivan, rather than elf. Zevran always figured that they would lack the fine whorehouses or...business opportunities that made up his life. Still, she looked so eager, traipsing around the forests; he remembered that he had a good five years or so on her. She wouldn't be as jaded as he was, no matter how many battles she'd been through. Those were _human_ or _dwarven_affairs, and elves didn't fight or deceive each-other...It was a fantasy he wished he still had, sometimes. He despised the very concept of alienages, but he could not help but admit to a certain allure at the thought of a close-knit community comprised solely of your family and friends.

But he didn't expect the Dalish to welcome them with open arms, either. He was right. When the scouting party had approached them, she had blanched at the open hostility. "But...But I'm one of you!" Sylrien said. "No, you are not." was the harsh reply. She was stunned for a few minutes, before the corners of her lips twitched down and her back straightened, "Then I come as a Grey Warden, seeking the Dalish to honor old alliances..."

What followed was proof that there was no fairytale kingdom of elves hidden in the woods. Though he would catch her occasionally staring wistfully at the groups of people huddled around fires, marveled at their landships...It was probably the closest thing to home she had seen in some time.

It was also nice because this was the first time in a long time that she was without her knight. "Shem..." she had said, when they had been discussing who should go, which group of them was needed, "Would alarm them. Wynne is old, and a healer - they would not fear her as much as a heavily armored warrior - we know not how they feel about the dwarves, and who knows how they'd respond to you, Sten." The giant balked at this, Zevran could tell beacuse he always would lean forward slightly whenever he disagreed with something, he figured it was a subconscious attempt at intimidation. "Do what you feel is appropriate."

"And I suppose that human women would frighten them too? That we might steal their menfolk and bewitch them?" Morrigan interjected, ruing the thought of staying behind with Alistair and Leliana. Or just the thought of staying behind while the Warden was out of sight, free from whatever designs she had on her.

Sylrien looked up, raising an eyebrow at the witch's protest. "No. I just think they would find Soris much more approachable. Less intimidating. If the stories are true - I wish I had talked to Alarith..." Her voice trailed off as her mind wandered, before she snapped back to attention. "Being with an animal is good sign, I think. Shows that us city elves aren't totally lost to the shem's ways. Empathy and the like."

She scritched the Mabari hound behind his ears, causing the animal to bark loudly with happiness.

"Isn't that right, Soris? Who could ever think you and your namesake could ever harm anyone? Eh? That's right, boy." The dog rolled around at her feet, then hopped on his hind legs in a begging position.

"That's right! I knew you reminded me of my cousin. And since he's an elf too, that's _got_to be providence. They wouldn't hurt an elven Mabari! No they wouldn't!"

So the next morning the four of them set out. It wasn't long before they found the Dalish. Moreso, the Dalish found them.

* * *

Now they were different. There were no awkward childhood fantasies here, just the truth of reality. Sylrien looked over her shoulder: Zevran did not seem to mind that they were outnumbered and unarmed - he could have been strolling down a street for the expression he wore. The others were less content, and justifiably so: trudging blindfolded and knee-deep through the sludge was not a pleasant experience. She wanted to say a reassuring word or make some gesture of comfort, but their hooded escort would most likely brook no delay. A clucking noise caught her attention. The leader of the patrol was looking at her, sizing her up.

"That armor. It is is Dalish. And of such make only our most skilled could have fashioned it. How did you come by it?"

She glanced back at her fellows, frowning before looking back to the leader. "It was a gift."

Sylrien doubted very much that the Dalish before her would believe she was the "Hero of Ferelden", the "Savior of the Elvhanen" or whatever other titles she had accrued since her death. She couldn't quite believe some of them herself.

However, it seemed Zevran would have none of this tense back and forth. Before anyone could move, before any of the guards could take action, he had broken the single line they had formed, swinging his arm around Sylrien's shoulders.

"Do you not recognize her, my wild friend? Have you not seen the grand tomb in Denerim, built for this very woman? Why, she is The Tabris! The Hero of Ferelden, the Grey Warden who freed her people and brought back hope to the Elvhanen!"

He squeezed her slightly. She wasn't sure if Zevran was royally brilliant, or stupid. The masked elf took another appraising look at her, before nodding slightly. "She does bear a passing resemblance to the stories. We-" He gestured to another elf, whispering something too soft for Sylrien to hear. The elf, a young woman, nodded and broke into a sprint. It looked like she was gliding over the swamp mud. The leader looked at her again. "The Keeper will know if you speak truly. We have one among our number who knew the Tabris when she was..." Again the elf looked at her. "_Alive_."

"Wonderful, wonderful. You are a smart man then, and you shall not regret this, I don't think. Just imagine: the very elf who brought Tabris back to her people! You will be known forever in song! Yes, they will sing of...What is your name? I did not catch it."

The elf puffed up a bit with pride, standing a bit straighter in the face of all this praise. "Fenarel. My name is Fenarel."


	14. Chapter 13: The End of an Origin

**Author's Note: Yay! Finally got uploader to work. Now the plot thickens. Old friends ore rediscovered, we get the perspective of Leliana, and the game is afoot! Thank you to Lady_Fawna and others for looking over the story to make sure everything is good, and thank you all for reading! As always, your humble writer thrives on Reviews, and I promise. This is going to be good. **

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**Chapter 13**

Thanks to the Antivan elf's skilled tongue, he had been able to pull out bits and pieces of history about Fenarel's clan. They had volunteered to 'stake their claim' in this region, claiming familiarity and duty when the elves had been given this land. While Zevran flattered and charmed the information out of him, he would wink at Sylrien, knowing she was putting all this together in her head. They had been here twelve years ago before traveling north, before joining the rest of the Dalish army that had marched to Denerim. Since then they had been drawn back to this place. There were strange ruins around, and it seemed some sort of tragedy had befallen their clan...But any more prodding and the elf clammed up. "The Keeper will answer any further questions you have."

Zevran was about to speak before he felt Sylrien's hand on his shoulder. It was enough.

Another hour or two passed before they finally saw the fires of the village between the thick, ugly trees. Two figures greeted them, silhouetted by the flames. Suddenly Sylrien stumbled, knocking into Fenarel. "Oh!....Oh, so sorry, my boot! I must...must have stepped on something sharp. Abelas, hahren." Her people paused for a second and Zevran couldn't keep from grinning. It was a stupid, silly signal, but one nonetheless. It meant get ready. Fenarel nodded to Sylrien, unaware that things were about to possibly go south very, very soon.

They trudged on, and stopped a few feet short of the two Dalish.

"Keeper Merrill? This is the one that-" "Pol!"

Sylrien started forward, stopping only when her escort began to pull out their weapons. She shook her head and pointed at the second elf. "I know him! You're one of Taeodor's brothers! He said you left to find the Dalish - I'm Sylrien, Soris' cousin! You left a few days before my wedding..Oh, I'm so glad you found the Dalish!"

The elf she addressed stepped forward, looking curiously at the excited Warden. "That's...right. You....you are she. Do you...do you remember what game we played in our youth, in the alleyways?"

The Dalish elves looked back at her, then at their brother. She paused, looking down and furrowing her brows together in thought.

"You....You were Blargha. The great Elven warrior who killed seventeen evil lords. Soris...Soris was the King Korin. I was Andraste, who helped save you from Flemeth. Shianni was Flemeth, right? And your brothers...they were - I can't remember - they were archers?"

The elf, Pol, stood back and nodded to Merrill. Then all the elves dropped to a knee, bowing their heads down to Sylrien. The gasp of surprise that left her lips caused her blindfolded friends to take off the strip of cloth that covered their sight. The Keeper spoke first,

"Warden of the Elvhenan, we are honored and overjoyed you have returned to your people. How may we serve you?"

Sylrien was taken aback. She looked around at the reverent elves, then back to her group. Alistair shrugged his shoulders, Shayle 'hmmpfed', Zevran chuckled and Leliana smiled.

"Well, this is new."

* * *

Leliana always loved stories. They were everywhere, woven into daily life. You just had to know where to find them, where to look. These elves had a story. They had gone from nomads in a strange land to villagers with a home of their own. Now that the blindfold was lifted, she was curious as to how they lived. Great canvas sails were now permanently planted around several buildings. Most of these buildings had a landship, an aravel, as their heart. They had turned them into proper homes, but not of stone and cut wood like those of the humans. It was as if they had been planted into the earth and sprouted new rooms and sections of their own accord.

She looked to her companions, each of them with their own story: Alistair had risen from a forgotten bastard to a great and noble king, Shayle was a golem who had been made flesh, Zevran was still an assassin, but his loyalty and friendship to Sylrien was worthy of a song, and Sylrien...She had sung Sylrien's tale once, and vowed never to do it again, but the promise of chapters yet to unfold sorely tempted her. Her fingers twitched, plucking the strings to some imaginary lap-harp as she composed the verses in her head.

The elves had treated them well enough when they discovered that Sylrien was The Tabris. They always lowered their voices around her, averting their eyes and giving her plenty of space. They couldn't seem to believe she was real. Leliana knew the same feeling, she was still coming to terms with it herself. She had wept greatly at her friend's funeral, still not believing that she was dead and not merely sleeping. It had been painful to know that her story, their story was over.

A few days ago, the book had been reopened. She had not changed a day since Leliana saw her last. She might have been something of a shock to the Warden, though. Her hair was longer now, the vibrant scarlet hue somewhat dulled by so many days out in the sun. Muscles that were once used to wield blade and string bow had gone soft, and it was embarrassing to note that her old armor, carefully packed away in a wooden trunk at the foot of her bed, did not quite fit as it once had. It was no great worry, sh was sure that an adventure combined with Ferelden camp food would get her right back to where she needed to be in order to help her friends.

After all their needs had been met, after they had refreshed - the elves even had luxuries like hot baths! (Though the method of heating reminded Leliana of a story about a poor man being cooked in a soup). They were around one of the greater campfires that were lit in the evenings. It seemed the whole village had turned out to see The Tabris, much to the poor girl's discomfort. Every time she made a move there was a collective gasp, every time she was about to speak the crowd grew eerily quiet. But the more interesting story, in Leliana's eyes, was the one going on with the two men in their party. Alistair sat next to Sylrien, but there was no touching, no overlapping. There had been a time when those two had always been touching, somehow. It would be at a campfire, eating whatever they called food that night, and her legs would be swung haphazardly over his lap as she leaned against the Mabari warhound. They would pat each other's hands, giving a light touch whenever the situation had been too tense for words. There had been a time once, when she found the elven Warden curled up against the human in front of the fire, dozing lightly as Alistair wrapped an arm around her shoulders, just content to lay there with her. He had raised a finger to Leliana, asking for silence. She had tilted her head and 'aww'ed at the scene, before nodding and taking the watch the elven warden was supposed to be keeping.

Now there was a wide gulf between the two former lovers. Even though they sat side by side, there was no longer any easy affection, no camaraderie. They seemed to be afraid of touching each-other. It was a a sad, epic love story that nearly moved Leliana to tears. There could be no reconciliation, no happy ending, just a series of painful glances and whispered words. They were separated by time, by fate...just like all the other great love stories.

Zevran, however, represented a curious new page. Now he had always joked, flirted liberally with anything female, and he still did. Except now he would give Sylrien all the reassuring touches Alistair couldn't muster the courage to give her. Always his arm would be around her, holding her close. While such embraces were short and apparently one-sided, now Sylrien never drew away instantly. He was a bold new suitor indeed. Granted, he occasionally would still hint and go on about the things he could do to Leliana with his pinky finger, but she had a feeling he would never see his offer through.

But now was a time for a different story, for a man in green sat at what looked like the head of the campfire. His face was marked with long graceful lines that curved over his cheekbones and chin. All heads turned toward this newcomer - the storyteller of the Mahariel clan.

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"So the Keeper says you seek the Witch of the Wilds? We might have a way to help you. It has been our secret shame, our secret duty for many long years, but we are the Elvhanen. We do what is needed. I will share with you our story, and you may judge if you think it useful to your cause."

"Years ago when there was no place we could call home, there was a tragic loss among our clan. Two of our hunters vanished from the land. Our former keeper sent us to look after these two hunters, and we were led to a cave just off the swamps. We had known every inch of this land, but the earth seemed to no longer tolerate the evil that dwelt there or perhaps it was a lure set by Fen'Harel for our unwary hunters..."

"We found their arrows in all manner of foul creatures One we recognized, a Bereskarn - a creature of your Blight. We are proud to say we had trouble figuring out what it was, thanks to the many cuts by Dalish blades, and the many arrows that punctured its corrupted hide. But it lay before a great mirror-"

The storyteller was interrupted by the Keeper, who had taken her place beside him.

"From the Tevinter Imperium. Though the place was littered with elvish artifacts, it was of human make. There is great evil there. We did not tarry long, nor did we gather anything from the cave. All that journeyed there to investigate grew ill, but we were able to heal them. The great difficulty of such magics hastened the death of the Keeper before me. I saw a the mirror myself. The blade of the hunter Tamlen,may we never forget his name, lay before it. It drew you to it, the mirror. But there were dark things, a great expanse of a black city - swirling, dark shapes that seemed to watch you. What I saw there is burned into my heart."

The woman nodded to the storyteller, Paivel, who continued.

"If we were sick, then the two hunters must have been doubly so. We found Tamlen's blade, but nothing else. There were no bodies, no blood. This mirror seemed to be a portal to another world. Some say it is the Beyond. When we traded information and lore with the other clans, we learned bits and pieces about the Maker of the humans, and their Black City. We think that is what we saw in the mirror. We watch the cave now, to ensure none enter...and no _thing_ leaves. When the Darkspawn overwhelmed the land we sought refuge in the north with the other clans. After you defeated the Archdemon, Tabris, we returned to resume our vigil here in the name of our fallen hunters."

* * *

There was no applause at the end of this story, just a heavy silence over the crowd. Her hand had found Alistair's during the telling, and his grip was painfully tight. It was the first time they had...No, one could not think of that now. The Dalish villagers slowly left the fire to return to their homes, the storyteller and the Keeper bowing to Tabris before they left. Now it was just the ragtag band of adventurers. Leliana spoke first. "Maker, did they say - I mean, did they -...._The Black City? _Did they really find a portal...is this one of the points that the Tevinter Mages entered the...? Those poor elves..."

Most of them were at a loss for words. Zevran spoke,

"But what does this have to do with us? We seek a witch, and we know her to be in Orlais. We leave here, go there. It is not so difficult a thing-"

Alistair snapped, "We don't know where she is in Orlais. We have clues; how do we find someone who has made it her business for hundreds of years not to be found? Do you think we will simply walk up to her door, knock and say 'Hello Flemeth. We're here to end your witchy life. Thanks for putting your name on the door frame, it made it ever so easy for us to come and disrupt the plans you've been making probably before even our parents were born!"

"It's Majesty has _such_ a way of words. I wonder if it will talk to the Swamp Witch to death, then certainly all our fears are misplaced-" "Watch it, Golem. I don't have to worry about you accidentally stepping on me anymore. Be careful or I just might break out the bird calls..."

"Really Alistair, there is no place for threats. I'm sure Shayle has a-" "But the Dwarf is right. This is dangerous business, and Flemeth is skilled. Even if we found her, she might yet-"

"Oh look, the assassin has an opinion! Let me guess, you want to sneak up on her and backstab her? How about you sleep with her to lower her defenses? Surely she wouldn't be expecting that! I am _sure_ that even she isn't immune to your silly accent-!" "Now, all of you, there is no reason to bicker like this!" "The Sister may have a point, but still we are not making the effort to go to Orlais-"

While the other three argued and bickered, Sylrien had stood up to pace around the campfire, deep in thought. Just when the arguing had reached a crescendo of noise, just as threats had been laid down and fights were about to break out, she looked up at the group and spoke quietly. "We find her through the Fade, through her dreams."

Her soft voice instantly quieted the group, they all turned to face her. Leliana was the first to speak, "You mean, go through this mirror? But what about the sickness that the storyteller spoke of?"

Sylrien brushed a strand of her behind her ear, still pacing, retracing her steps carefully. "We...we find her dreams. If she is an abomination, then she will be tied to the Fade. That thing still has a home there and she is still part human, she will dream. If we can find where she goes when she dreams, we might find her exact location and she won't suspect us. Or at least, we'll have a head-start on finding her. She might just brush us off as figments of her imagination - this is old magic, older than she, perhaps and elven. This sickness...Alistair and I may be immune to it. We are already..." She looked up at Alistair, who had lapsed into silence, looking at her through hooded eyes. "We bear the Taint already. If it truly is a portal to the Dark City, if that is where the Taint originates...we are protected."

Zevran stood and walked over to her. He did not touch her, merely brought his lips to her ear. "I told you I would storm the Dark City at your side. You are not leaving me behind."

"Right, you aren't leaving any of us behind. We'll find a way, but that is a place that no two people, no matter them being Grey Wardens, could hope to take on." Leliana stood and nodded to Shayle who grunted in agreement. Sylrien looked first at Zevran, eyes wide and lips parted. The idea took a moment to register, then she physically pushed Zevran away, sending him tumbling back a few steps.

"You will not! I don't care who you people are now, but going there puts too great a risk on your lives! This is not a battle to be fought, this...this is a disease. You cannot fight such corruption - it will not die under blade or bravado!"

The Antivan huffed, putting himself to right. "Then we all become Grey Wardens, no? Seems the only way to do this."

Sylrien shook her head adamantly, "No. I will not put you through that. You have a choice, and I will not risk that, risk you - any of you! It is a death sentence, for desperate men and women who have no way ou-" Her words fell silent as she looked at Alistair. She took a deep breath and walked over to the human, who had since looked down at his feet, shoulders shaking slightly. She put her hand on his shoulder. He flinched visibly, but did not move away from her as she sighed, "If Alistair and I fail, then it will be left to you three to take care of the witch. Leliana, you know Orlais, you might be able to find her with your old connections. You are the alternative."

The heavy silence was broken by thin, frail laughter. It seemed that they were not the last left around the fire. There was an old elf, broken by time and wrinkled with age. The man - or was it a woman? continued to laugh, prompting a very angry glare from several members of the small party.

"There is a way for the elf to join you, at least. The Keeper, she knows how. Your tainted blood, Warden, is the key. He sleeps and journeys to the Beyond, guided by Falon'Dim...he will not enter the gate physically, oh yes. He will be with you in spirit. He may see things your physical selves couldn't...heehee...a fine speech you give your comrades, oh yes. But do not underestimate the magics of the Dalish, yes..."

Sylrien frowned. "How do you know this? Who are you?"

The crone, whatever it was, laughed again, before hobbling to her (his? its?) feet with the aid of a cane. "Just an old elf with large ears. Thanks to you, Tabris, we have learned much. Yes, we've learned so much."

Sylrien was about to speak, about to protest and demand some sort of confrontation, but Zevran darted forward, grabbing her wrist and giving her a cold look before glancing over to the withered elf.  
"Our thanks, old mother. We'll talk to the Keeper tomorrow. But I do not doubt we all need our rest, no? It has been an....exciting night, to say the least."


	15. Chapter 14: Through the Looking Glass

**Author's Note: Sorry this took so long, lovely readers! With mine and my darling beta-reader's schedule, it's been a little hectic. But hopefully this'll be the start of a new, consistent run of the chapters from now on. As always, thank you Princess_Fawna and co. for your help, and thank you readers for taking the time to look at my little story! As always, please Read & Review, and I hope you enjoy the ride.**

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**Chapter 14**

_By your side I would willingly storm the gates of the Dark City itself. Do not doubt it!_

Now he had a chance to prove it. They were in some sort of lodge: he, Leliana and Shayle. He was shirtless and laying flat on his back as the Keeper loomed over him. She was dipping her finger into a bowl that was filled with a thick, red substance inside. It was blood: Sylrien's blood, and Alistair's. When he would join them in the Fade, these markings would make sure that he found them -- his spirit or his mind would flock to their location like a beacon. The air was hazy with a film of acrid white smoke, some flowers were burning in a pit next to him. There was chanting, several elven voices merged as one. Leliana was holding his hand, it was a small comfort. The two Wardens were already making their way to this mirror.

* * *

He remembered the look on Sylrien's face when he volunteered to go. She was in shock, caught off guard at the possibility of his death. The thought made him smile. Later that night she had made her way into his room, climbing into the hammock he was sleeping in.

"Please, please don't go. It is too dangerous."

She whispered, her slender form pressed invitingly against his. He could feel she was wearing something thin, something practically non-existent. He did hunger for her, but he knew her intentions.

"A tempting offer you make, sweet Syl, but you think me so easily seduced? I must admit, I am quite fond of you, but your words alone will not move me to break the oath I made to you."

He felt her hands slide against his skin in the darkness, her lips brush teasingly against his ear. He groaned softly; she knew his body well.

"It...it is not your fight, Zev." (Zev, ah, she was concerned. She never used the friends-version of his name lightly) "We don't know if it would work, what sort of magic this is...Please, please, just stay. Your skills are better served in the waking world, please." A soft gasp as her fingers touched something hard and warm. "Please, stay here."

Zevran had enough. He grabbed her wrists, pinning them over her head. "Not my fight? My dear, I believe I was the one that specifically mentioned storming the Dark City with you. If anything, your human ser should stay behind, being king and all."  
She squirmed against him, and it was a _delicious_ feeling.  
"Now, you will either stay and sate this fire you've been provoking in me or you go and rest for your journey tomorrow. I am not worried about myself...I am sure I will be having plenty of sleep tomorrow. But you? We could not have our Warden overexerted when she needs to be alert the most?" Zevran grabbed her sides, pulled her tight against him as his lips touched hers in a searing kiss. Then he pushed her away, pushed her out of the hammock. Sylrien landed on her feet, straightening the thin nightgown and making for the door. She hesitated at the frame, looking back at him-

"Tease," he grinned in the darkness. That sent her away sure enough.

* * *

The morning was a somber one. Leliana was crying; she hugged both Wardens tightly, making threats of even more violence should they be harmed. Shayle did not meet the eyes of either of them, gruffly nodding as she wiped at her eyes. Zevran and Alistair shared a handshake and a nod. That wasn't the most exactly heartfelt of partings, but that was to be expected. Then it came time for Sylrien to say goodbye. When she stood before him, they said nothing. Then she grabbed the back of his neck, pressing her forehead against his, her other hand resting on his chest. Zevran placed his hand over her own, and on her shoulder. A moment passed, two, before they parted. She nodded slightly to him as she turned to catch up with the other Warden, who was already making his way down the path to the entrance of the cave. When she caught up with him, she turned back to look at the group before moving on. Zevran saw her hand reach out to Alistair's, and she grasped it tightly. Then the pair turned a corner and were gone.

Which meant it was time for him to undergo his ritual in order to join them. The smoke was already getting too thick for him to breathe, though the others in the lodge-like building did not seem to mind. Still the Keeper was chanting something, muttering words softly enough that he had to strain his ears to listen. She kept getting softer and softer. His vision began to blur. Suddenly, Leliana released her grip on his hand. He was falling, falling...

_By your side I would willingly storm the gates of the Dark City itself. Do not doubt it!_

_

* * *

_

They didn't speak to each other. They just held hands while they trudged down the path to the cave. Stealth was not an option, not while the plate-mail Alistair wore clanged and clanked as he walked. With the exception of their twined fingers, they were apart. Only when they finally arrived at the cave (it was a giant hole in the earth, not a cave) did Alistair speak. He stopped and looked up, before looking over at her.

"I'm scared."

She squeezed his hand, nodded.

"So am I, but we will survive this. I promise."

He squeezed her hand, but did not return her reassuring smile. They stepped inside.

The place was old, and the place had seen a great deal of battle. She recognized the slightly sticky pile of bones: Skeletons possessed by Fade spirits. Sylrien could smell the magic in the air, she could spy the traps that had been disabled. There had been much battle here in the far and recent pasts.

Then they came to the mirror.

Two giant statues of robed humans stood guard on either side of the sheet of glass. They looked down sternly at the two people that had dared to enter their private sanctuary. The mirror itself was a curious thing. From the base of the steps one could see nothing in its reflection, but as one moved closer...Ah, there it was. Sylrien actually had to look down into the mirror to see anything. It was definitely the Fade. The sky was a mottled brown color, always twisting and swirling. There was a dark mass of spires on the horizon. She could just reach her hand out....

Alistair grabbed her hand, snatching it away from the surface of the mirror. Her mind snapped back to reality with him. It was very powerful, this mirror. It beckoned to her, and she had almost fallen under its sway. Alistair looked at her, his hand still around her wrist, his other hand still in hers.

"Are you sure you want to do this? I...They would understand if we came back. This is dangerous, this is powerful magic. I can _feel_ it."  
His brows were furrowed together, he looked truly disturbed by the Tevinter artifact. Sylrien smiled up at him, reaching up on her toes to kiss his forehead. She then pressed her forehead against his, her hands on both his cheeks.  
"It will be alright. We will be alright. Just don't let go, promise?"

Alistair smiled slightly and nodded. With a deep breath he turned to face the mirror, his hand squeezing hers tightly. "If we don't make it through this, you know that-"

"I do, Alistair. And you know that I shall, always."

They moved towards the mirror. Alistair was the first to step forward, his hand going beyond the surface, _into_ the mirror and the dreamscape that lay beyond. Sylrien followed.


	16. Chapter 15: The Gates of the Black City

Authors Note: As always, I apologize, busy writer and beta-reader are busy. As always, thanks to **Princess_Fawna** for reading the story and making sure all the dots connect and everything is readable. Things are getting pretty intense, and we meet some familiar characters here. Hope you enjoy it, and as always, please read and review.

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**Chapter 15**

_No traveler to the Fade can fail to spot the Black City. It is one of the few constants of that ever-changing place. No matter where one might be, the city is visible. (Always far off, for it seems that the only rule of geography in the Fade is that all points are equidistant from the Black City.) _

- From Beyond the Veil: Spirits and Demons

It was like walking through water. Everything looked slightly blurred, yet it looked crystal clear. It was like she had been awake for a few days straight. She became ultra aware of everything, yet nothing seemed like it quite _connected_. If it weren't the hand she held, she might have gone mad. It wasn't like this before, but before she had been sleeping rather than physically stepping into the realm of dreams.

The land was different too. It wasn't a mass of broken islands of twisted land. There was only a long road that extended into the distance, straight to the heart of the black mass of spires. Alistair whistled, taking a few steps back and glancing over at their tiny doorway from the waking world.

"Long walk. Nice view. This is just what I wanted when out adventuring, you know, the bleak landscapes of inevitable doom. My dear, you know me too well."

Sylrien grinned. "You know it. I'd hate for you to find it dull, Alistair. I know how much you dislike quiet nights by the campfire with a good meal in your stomach. I'd never subject you to that."

He smirked at her, shaking his head as she cracked her neck.  
"Well my king, shall we?"

"So soon to abandon me? Were you not the one that extolled the virtues of loyalty to me so long ago?"  
Another voice chimed in, followed by sure, even steps. She felt a hand on her shoulder and she sighed in relief.

"Zevran....You came. I mean, I knew you would but there was still-"

"Danger? Woman, there is always danger with you around. One of the many reasons I enjoy your company." The elf stepped from behind her, smiling slightly. Sylrien blinked several times, rubbing her head. This hyper-awareness was starting to cause her nerves to fray and somewhere in the back of her head to throb. Zevran's smile faded as he saw her grimace.

"What, what is it?"

Both men looked at her with concern.

"I...I do not know. Do you feel it too, Alistair?"  
He shook his head, "It feels like I'm one drink away from tipsy...but other wise I'm fine."  
She grimaced. _Because you are still fully Tainted, and Zevran is here in a dream. I should have known._ Alistair had begun to move towards her, "If we need to go back-"

"No. We need to move on. The sooner we get this done, the sooner it won't be a problem. We can't waste time. Just....just take the front. Lead. I'll be fine." Needles were beginning to prick at the sides of her skull. Sylrien took a deep breath and stepped forward. _Focus. Focus. _

They walked. And walked. And walked. But no matter how long they walked, it seemed that the Black City never got any closer though the window to the waking world had long since disappeared behind them. Zevran and Alistair both tried to tell stories and banter, but Sylrien would hush them, and beg for them to keep their voices down. The needles in her mind had since turned into hammers wielded by angry Dwarven eunuchs. She wasn't quite sure if Dwarves even had eunuchs, but...Aggh! They were very angry. Her pride kept her upright though, and she walked behind the two men. It seemed like hours...There were no signs of spirits, demonic or otherwise. There was no motion except for the shifting planes of 'sky' above them.

Then there was a dark blur. Two dark blurs. The trio instantly stopped as these flashes of color began to encircle them. Alistair and Zevran already had blades unsheathed, back to back. Sylrien was slower. With the pounding in her skull, her reflexes were dulled, her feet did not move as quickly as she wanted them to. She just had to take one...more...step...

Alistair reached to his hand to grab hers, to yank her into the protection of the triangle...

Then something pulled her back, something gripped her by the shoulder and she felt..._steel_? Steel at her neck? Demons did not...and Darkspawn would not hesitate. Both Zevran and Alistair darted towards her, only to be halted by a voice behind them.

"Whoever you are, whatever kind of spirits you may be, stop before we end your friend."

There was a man - there was an elf - wielding a bow, the arrow pulled taut and tight, aimed at the human. His eyes were a bright, clear grey and his hair was a sun-stained, flaxen blond. His companion was a woman; her face was obscured by a heavy curtain of hair the color of rich earth. Anything else the elf said was lost to Sylrien's ears. The hammering, the pounding was deafening. She couldn't take much more of it, it was all just...

Dark.

* * *

Sadbh felt the girl she held against her turn into dead weight. "Tamlen!" She shouted as the figure crumpled and fell to the 'floor'. The strange elf and human began to move toward her and the female elf, but Tamlen kept his arrow trained on them, circling them till he was by Sadbh's side. "What is it, lethallin?"

"She's sick. Sick like we are. I don't know how she thought she could step through the mirror unaided..."

"We're Grey Wardens, she and I. The same Taint this place has runs through our veins" The human cut through her words, tense and ready to spring forward. Tamlen did not ease up on the grip of the bow.

"Quiet, shem'len. You want her to live, you do as we say."

Meanwhile, Sadbh had taken out a dagger, cutting into her arm. The blood ran like a thin stream down her forearm. She dribbled it over the woman's lips. She was an elf, and she wore the finest Dalish armor Sadbh had ever seen. Her face though, bore no mark of the Dalish. There was no vallaslin dedicating her to any particular god. The other elf had markings on his face, but she did not recognize them. There was something smeared on his chest, something faintly familiar.

Then as the first drops of blood splattered onto the lips of the unconscious woman, the blond elf darted forward. Tamlen fired the arrow, missing the elf only by a sliver of an inch. The darker elf threw his weight against Tamlen. Sadbh cried out as the two crashed to the ground, the woman in her lap stirring slightly. With Tamlen distracted, the human moved toward Sadbh, but she was a bit quicker on her feet than most.

"Stop!" She cried out, the dagger that had cut her arm now pressed against the woman's throat. "Or I will end your woman. Stop it **now**_**.**__"_

The girl soon woke, fluttering her eyes open as the blond elf froze, allowing Tamlen to quickly regain the upper hand.

"Abelas!" The woman cried, relaxing against Sadbh. "Abelas, hahren! We mean no harm! We....we are here with the blessing of the Mahariel clan!"

Now it was time for Sadbh and Tamlen to be surprised. The dagger dropped from her hand as the woman scrambled over to her companions, leaning on the heavily armored human. Though shocked, Sadbh and Tamlen quickly restrung arrows to their bows, pointing them in the direction of the party. "You lie!" Sadbh spat, stepping slightly forward. "You are not Dalish, flat-ear! Do not try to deceive us! We are hunters of the Mahariel clan, and we do **not** know your face."

* * *

It took a while to calm everyone down...but eventually the truth came out. Tamlen and Sadbh were the missing elves that had discovered the mirror. Sadbh had apparently regained consciousness after blacking out, finding herself and her comrade burning with a strange sickness. She wouldn't dare infect the rest of her clan, so as she felt the life leak from her body, she took her companion through the mirror where they had eventually recovered. It was almost like they were Grey Wardens themselves. They had the same Taint, if in a different form. Anyways, for the two hunters, it was as if a week had passed, not years. There was...much to tell them, but this was not the place nor the time.

The hunters had not explored the Fade, preferring to linger near the mirror to make sure nothing else tried to get out; they were protecting their clan. They had discovered a few things; however, things that could aid the trio of foreigners. Though they still cast a suspicious eye on Sylrien, Alistair and Zevran, they offered their aid.

Something nagged at Sylrien whenever she looked as Sadbh. There was something familiar about her though she could not place it. The Dalish woman felt it too, maybe that was why she volunteered to help with their strange mission so quickly.

They continued to walk down the endless road.

"See, when we entered the mirror...we were lost, there was nothing. We kept thinking about the mirror and home, focusing on that and then there it was. It was like we willed it to appear. Perhaps if you do the same, it will get you to where you need to be?"

Sylrien caught Sadbh glancing at her every now and then; The elf Tamlen was quiet and he never left the Dalish woman's side. Alistar and Zevran trailed behind them. She nodded to Sadbh, rubbing her neck.

The a strange thing started to happen as they walked. Before, the Black City appeared on the horizon, always looming overhead but never did the distance really change. As they walked, as they _really_ concentrated on their destination, it changed. It was not a gradual process. One step forward and the the city suddenly jumped closer. A hour would pass and it looked like they made no progress, only for to the party to stop and find themselves close enough to make out the tattered banners flying from the walls. It was like an onion, whole layers of distance peeling away at sporadic intervals. The only thing the party could do was keep moving forward.

Then, before they realized it, they were at the gates.

Sylrien and Sadbh nearly ran right into the giant doors. It was just that random and sudden. Well, Sadbh had the wherewithal and state of mind that she managed to stop herself. Sylrien was unfortunate enough to not be as fast. She fell on her rear, grumbling and rubbing her forehead. Real, good natured laughter broke out through the party. The tension finally eased somewhat. After she was done grumbling, the group warily stepped back (What if stepping back sent them at the beginning? No, we must concentrate on the gates, their guides told them. Focus!)

Two giant doors loomed before them. They were so tall that they seemed to go on forever, disappearing into the sky. They were black, as were the walls, but they seemed to _move_. As if there were things inside, pressing against them and leaving impressions in the soft material. There was a low sort of wailing that seemed to emanate from behind the wall, a piteous cry that never ceased. Sylrien touched the doors, her fingers leaving slight indentations. No matter how much she pushed, how much they all pushed...the doors never opened.

"This is great. I really don't know what we were expecting. Think the Maker would great us with flying banners and trumpets? We should go back if we even can go back! This was too dangerous and a bad idea."  
The lack of action, the roadblock annoyed Alistair to no end, so he did what he always did when he was annoyed: He talked. Sylrien stood back, rubbing her temples as he went on...This _was_ frustrating. She couldn't stop him from feeling it, but hearing about it was an entirely another matter.

He was going on, and on, and on. It was as if something had been unplugged and the words all came rushing on.

"...You're dead. They're dead. Well, you're really more alive, you were dead. You shouldn't be put in a position to be in danger anyways. We should have used Leliana's old contacts. It's not like we could simply knock on the door to the **Black City** and expect a merry welcome." To emphasize his point he rapped his knuckles against the 'wooden' frame.

Then something began to creak, it sounded like gears were grinding. A layer of dust seemed to shake off the doors. And they began to _move_. Sylrien looked over to Alistair to mouth, 'you brilliant bastard!' He blushed at her, shrugging slightly. The doors finally began to open.

A trickle of golden sand began to leak from the crack the doors made as they moved slowly. Sylrien bent down to touch it, eyebrows furrowing. The substance dissipated on touch. Then...more sand rushed out, covering her boots mid calf. She looked up at the opening crack. As far as she can see, there was a wall of that sand behind the doors. The low wail stopped, and in the infinite space of the Fade a breeze whooshed past her. The wind did not end, it only grew. She began to edge away from the door as the others pulled out weapons. Then the doors suddenly swung open, and there was a wall of sand rushing down towards them.

"Run!"

Sylrien was the first to turn, the first to bolt in the opposite direction. The wind picked up the sand, and it turned into a wave. There was no escaping it; the very line of thinking that got them to the gates also tied them down to it. They couldn't think of anything else but the wave nipping at their heels. The two Dalish elves were already far ahead of the three. Zevran was in front of her, Alistair...

Alistair!

She turned to see the plate-clad knight struggling to keep up the pace. The wave was gaining on him. Sylrien stopped, reaching out a hand to him, to pull him along, anything!  
"Go!" He shouted, "Run! Leave me!"

Sylrien shook her head, "Never!" Her fingers slipped around his own, trying to tug him along.

The sand had caught up to him, began to swallow him. She tried to pull him out, no matter the golden flecks that were beginning to pool around her boots, her knees.  
"Alistair!" She shouted again, catching only a flash of hazel eyes before the wave swallowed him whole.  
Sylrien still had his hand, his fingers were tightly laced with hers; she began tugging, pulling frantically behind her as she looked ahead at the elves ahead of her. Zevran had paused when he realized she had lagged behind. She reached out her free hand to him....he stopped cold in his tracks. She could see it in his eyes, the sand mounting up behind her. It was about hip deep now, waist deep. It was all too fast. Still, she wouldn't let go of Alistair's hand.

The other elves were trying to pull Zevran away.  
"Go!" She pleaded, screamed at him.  
Something in the blond elf snapped, he was pushing against the arms of the Dalish to reach her, shouting her name. They were dragging him off, one of his hands reached out for hers...She began to scream - the sand had reached her shoulders, she tried to let go, but now Alistair's fingers were like a vice around her wrist - and her mouth filled with sand. All she could see was golden sand.

It consumed them all.


	17. Chapter 16: Dreams and Fantasies

**Authors Note: So sorry about the delay in chapters...Real life unfortunately takes precedence, but I have not forgotten, and this story is far! from over. As always, thanks to Princess_Fawna for beta reading this, as well as all those whose opinions I have sought. As always, please read and review, and I hope you enjoy the brief trip to the Fade!**

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**Chapter 16  
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"Zevran?"

Again, more forcefully, "Zevran?"

His eyes fluttered open to find Sylrien looking over him, concern plain in her eyes. She gave him a sweet smile and leaned over to press a kiss to his forehead. "You're awake, finally. You looked so peaceful sleeping...I almost didn't want to wake you." She moved to lay down next to him, curling her body against his. She wasn't dressed in armor, but a plain white nightgown.  
"We've got a long day ahead of us, Zev. You were supposed to be up hours ago...Today's the day you go out with your father to the woods." Sylrien nuzzled his neck slightly, taking his arm and draping it around her shoulders. Zevran frowned as she shook his head. All his thoughts seemed in to be shrouded in a fog.  
"Wha...? What do you mean?"

She laughed and placed featherlight kisses on his eyelids, then his cheeks, before lingering at his lips and placing a deep kiss there.  
"What do I mean? You're a woodcutter, like your father. You go out to the forests with him in the morning to work."  
That didn't sound right. He sat up and looked down at her. "I have never been such a thing. I am a Crow...and you are a Warden."  
She laughed as she got out of bed, tugging on his hand to follow her. "I have never been any such thing! But if you want to pretend you are a Crow...I have something you could assassinate." Her eyes twinkled with mischief, darting forward to steal another kiss from his lips before running out of the bedroom.  
Their bedroom, it seemed.

Zevran tried to concentrate, tried to think, but it was like there was a wall in his mind. He vaguely remembered hearing her scream, but there were other memories, happier memories. There was a man that resembled Zevran, with dark eyes and blond hair bleached by the sun. There was a woman with pale eyes and complicated tattoos inked over her forehead and chin. He...knew them. They were his parents. There was more: a family. There was Sylrien, standing in an alienage, looking shyly at him and blushing whenever he spoke to her. He was...some sort of merchant. They had met in Denerim, he had been hired by a troubled looking human to do...something, and he had met her there.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that something here was _wrong_. This wasn't...it was wonderful, but it wasn't right. Zevran stood, pacing around the room. All these items seemed familiar to him: A lone earring on the bedside table, boots in the corner of a room, a single rose in a vase by the window...They just didn't fit in a complete picture.  
"Zevran? What's the matter?"  
Her voice shook him out of his contemplative mood, and he turned to face her. Sylrien was the same. She was the only thing he knew for sure. He knew the curve of her neck, the way she bit her lip whenever she was unsure about something. He saw her lean on one foot, scratching an itch on the back of her calf with the other toe. Sylrien was real, and that was enough for him.

Zevran smiled and embraced her; he pressed his lips to hers in a deep kiss. "It is nothing. Let us go eat before I go out?"  
She smiled again and nodded, pecking his cheek before heading to the far side of the room. He smiled after her, following dutifully. As he passed a mirror, something in his reflection caught his eye.

Two black marks that stood out like ugly scars across this perfect world. His fingers traced the outlines of the tattoos. The human had laughed as he winced, the blade at his throat. "_You are a Crow now, boy. We will mark you as ours, so you never forget who you belong to." _  
The place had smelled of piss and fish and cigar smoke. He had to wear a bandage for weeks before the markings healed and settled.

The door suddenly swung open, slamming against the wall. Tamlen stepped through the doorway, sniffing and snarling, "This place smells like Shem'len."  
Zevran could have kissed him.

After taking a good look at the interior of the house, Tamlen looked over at Zevran. "I don't think this is real," He frowned.  
Zevran laughed, making his way to the elf's side. "Your talent for observation never fails to impress, my friend. I think we should be going, no?"

There was a sound coming from the kitchen. Both men snapped their heads in the direction of the sound.

The thing that looked like Sylrien was leaning against the table as she looked at the pair. She frowned deeply as she took a step towards them.  
"Zevran, do you have to leave? We...we could be so happy here. This...this could be everything you've wanted, everything you dreamed of. Don't you want to stay here with me?"

Zevran felt his heart tug at her words. It would be so easy. Then again, this really wasn't Sylrien. He would always know it wasn't her. (It was a false love, a ghost of the real thing. She would never love him like this. This was too normal, too perfect. He didn't deserve the happiness this apparition promised him.)

"Zev?" She was so hopeful. Tears were beginning to well in her clear gray eyes.

It was too much, he couldn't bear this a moment longer. Stepping towards this Not!Sylrien, Zevran took her hand and kissed the top gently. "Dear Lady, we both know that this is just a fantasy, a beautiful dream. Do not cry for me, I will manage well enough. I thank you for this small taste of what the heavens surely promise. Farewell." He could never let Sylrien cry over him, even if she was just an illusion. She flashed him a shy smile as he stepped away, following Tamlen out the door.

* * *

There had been darkness. There had been sand **everywhere** and then light! Then warmth. Alistair opened his eyes slowly. He was probably dreaming. Then again, maybe he had been dreaming before, and this was real. It was certainly better than the nightmare he had been having, and the Fade was where dreamers went...It made sense enough that Alistair buried his face into his pillow, blocking out any sounds.

Then he felt a pair of soft hands stroking his arms.  
"Wake up, my king. Morning has come and you must tend to your duties."

Nope, wasn't dreaming. He knew that voice. Alistair looked up at the woman sitting on the side of his bed. Her red hair was plaited into a braid. "...Valethe? What are you doing here?"  
Yep, not dreaming at all.  
The woman smiled at him. "Waking my dear king-brother. He's overslept again. Am I such a displeasing sight?"

"Not you, certainly. But I think he would find my presence rather surprising. Though I doubt he would find my company so unpleasant under these circumstances."  
...This wasn't a dream. This was a nightmare, otherwise he knew no reason why _that_ voice would on the other side of his bed. Slowly he turned his head, afraid of what he might see. She was there, with her eerie yellow eyes and her black hair falling in waves down her face. Alistair practically jumped out of his skin, starting back so violently that he knocked Valethe of the edge of the bed. Morrigan only laughed her bitter, sultry laugh.

"Hush, Morrigan. I will not let you have him. His heart, all he is...is mine. As my heart is his. As everything I am belongs to him." There another voice interjected, a voice Alistair found much more soothing.  
Sylrien climbed up his body, the sheets pooling at her waist. She was laying on-top of him, and she wasn't wearing a single thing. He didn't mind that so much. She lowered her lips to kiss him, and those lips were so soft. It was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. Morrigan 'hmmpf'ed softly, finally getting out of the bed as Alistair wrapped his arms around the waist of the lithe elf atop him.

"What is this?" Alistair asked, looking up at Sylrien.  
"Maker, this must be a dream. A rather crazy dream. A hot dream. Crazy hot. I mean, it isn't a bad dream, but this is certainly a-"  
She pressed a finger to his lips. "Ssshh. This is a good dream. Enjoy it, my love."  
Sylrien successfully quieted him. All Alistair knew after that were kisses, and the sensations of her warm, pliant body against his. Time seemed to stand still, and he wasn't sure if several hours or several minutes passed. Still, there were questions. This couldn't be real.

"What about Morrigan? Why is she here? Why is Valethe...I mean, this is all very pleasant. This is more than pleasant, but-"  
She chuckled, kissing his lips to stop his babbling again. "Don't you remember the ritual? You had to sleep with Morrigan so I would live. You've done that now, and the Archdemon was defeated. You had to marry Valethe, but she's more like your sister than anything else. We're together, just like I promised we would be. Nothing could separate us."

She leaned down to kiss him again. Maker, his head was dizzy from so much kissing. The taste of her lips was making his head swim and made it hard to think.  
"But....what about heirs? I...Valethe..."

Valethe chimed in, her voice soft and almost purring. "Dearest Alistair, you have your children with Sylrien. Why would I want to come between you and the woman you love? You are both like family to me, my brother and my sister." She smiled softly at Sylrien and leaned over to stroke her hair. Sylrien smiled dreamily up at the human woman. "We're like a family. One big, happy family."

_(But Grey Wardens can't have children. We have to end this. It-it would be easier to end this now, rather than later, I'm sorry.)_

"What was that, my love?" Sylrien looked down at Alistair. "Did you say something?"

_("But...Is...Are you trying to punish me for making you king? I...Don't you love me?" He turned away from her. He couldn't look at her; he had to have the strength to do this, and to see her fall apart would make him lose all resolve. "I do love you. But I have to be responsible. My death is assured, and I must have an heir.")_

She looked down at him strangely, tilting her head to the side, "Alistair?"

_("This isn't because of that, is it? It's because I'm an elf, isn't it? The King of Ferelden can't be beholden to an elf whore. Has to marry a pretty Shem noble, with round ears who...who..." Her voice was breaking. It was like a knife in his heart. He immediately turned toward her, catching her just before she crumpled to the floor. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks covered in glistening tears. Maker, he wanted to wipe her eyes, reassure her. He couldn't._  
_"You know that isn't true. I loved-I love you! This goes beyond us. This is not about what I want or what we want. This is about what Ferelden needs!"_

_"Then damn Ferelden! Damn it all! I can't lose you. I can't live without you, I won't lose you."_

_"I'm sorry. It has to be this way...I hope you can forgive me, one day."_  
_He had helped her to a chair. When she sat down, he turned away from her. She was sobbing freely, and he was shaking. He was shaking from rage, from his own grief, from hating himself for doing this to her. Eventually her sobs faded, and he heard her step across the stone floor. He felt her lips press against his cheeks, felt her hands wrap around his shoulders._

_"It doesn't...We don't have to lose each other. There is a way."_  
_Was there? He opened his eyes to look into her own. "What do you mean?"_

_Sylrien slid down to her knees, lips pressed against his armor, her hands wrapped around his leg._  
_"I want to stay with you... let me be your mistress then, Alistair. Just please don't leave me. Don't toss aside our love." She begged, pleaded._  
_His hand found her hair, she turned her face in the direction of his palm, nuzzling it. He sighed. He wanted her, he loved her more than anything else in the world. It...it wasn't right, but she was begging him. He wanted her to be happy, he wanted to be happy with her._  
_But then she died, and he only felt emptiness, felt the whisper of the taste of her lips on his skin, the softness of her skin at his fingertips...)_

This wasn't real. Alistair gripped the thing on top of him and threw her off of him with a roar. He quickly got out of the bed at the far side, putting as much distance between him and these..._creatures_. The two women sat on the edge of the bed, their arms wrapped around each-other as they whimpered and cooed in his direction.  
"Come to bed, Alistair. Be happy. Don't you want to be happy?" "Alistair?"

Before he could answer, the door opened and in stepped Sadbh. Her bow was drawn, and she looked between the two women on the bed and the naked man in the corner. Her eyebrow arched inquisitively at the scene. Alistair just shook his head, barreling past her.  
"Don't ask. You don't want to know."  
The Dalish elf shrugged, and followed him out.

* * *

They were in the east balcony of the court at the Royal Palace. Or at least, something that looked like it. Except that there were no courtiers or nobles in the eaves, but figures alternately cloaked in shadow or light. It was like a supernatural Landsmeet. The same banners hung upon the walls as they did twelve years ago; they swayed slightly in some non-existent breeze. There was a steady hum of whispered conversation, though he could never exactly make out what the 'people' were saying. There was one major difference from the room he remembered; though, where the Throne had once stood, there was now a large statue of Falon'Dim. Zevran recognized the image of the god from the short time he and Sylrien had spent with the Dalish.

Why here of all places? This place was not important to Zevran, he never dreamed about this. Then he spied Alistair and the female Dalish making their way through the strange crowd and towards them.  
"Lethallin!" Tamlen cried, rushing to the side of the woman. They embraced, kissed before exchanging words in their strange tongue. Alistair nodded to Zevran, he returned the gesture. It was a relief to see him...That was a rare sentiment.

But they were still missing a member of their party. Alistair spoke first, "Have you seen her? Did you...?"  
Zevran shook his head. "Not our real Sylrien, I fear. But-" The words died in his throat as he looked over Alistair's shoulder. There was a woman in the corner of the balcony, leaning over the railing. She was an elf, from what he could tell. She had dark hair plaited in a long braid running down her back, and he recognized something about that profile...The two Dalish elves looked up at Zevran, and the small group followed him towards the familiar woman.  
Well, not completely familiar, but Zevran recognized those features, even if he had never met her while she was living.

"Adaia?"

The woman looked up and nodded. She bore a striking resemblance to her daughter, except she had a series of marks that looked like lace over one side of her face. "I know you?" She tilted her head to the side, an eyebrow raised at the intruding elf. Zevran stepped back into a formal bow. "Let me say that I have heard much about you from your daughter." Alistair was taken aback at this, quickly looking Adaia over. "You're....you're her mother...?"

The elf laughed softly, giving the pair of men a smile that was achingly similar to one they had seen on another woman. "I am. Are you here to watch as well?"  
Zevran quirked a brow, "Watch?"  
Adaia gestured to the crowd that had begun to settle at the edges of the raised platform, looking down at something on the floor with great interest. "Yes, watch. See, we're all people from her past...memories of people. There's Nelaros, sweet Nelaros. It's hard for him to see her like this. Then there's the Teyrn over there; he's a strange fellow...very quiet. She grieves for him, for what he's become. And there's the Grey Warden, Duncan. And look! The witch Morrigan. And so many others. Faceless mobs of those she killed, the several thousands she could not save. We're all here."

Zevran only glanced in the direction she gestured. He didn't care about ghosts from Sylrien's past. He needed to find _her_. "What are you watching? Where is she?"

The woman shrugged. "See for yourself. We're here because she can't forget us. She's here because she can't forget her duty. Why are you here?"  
Zevran was about to answer before Alistair interrupted him.

"We're here to rescue her."  
He couldn't have said it better himself.


	18. Author's Note

Author's Note:

Hello everyone! Thank you for sticking with story! Fortunately I've caught up on a lot of schoolwork as of late. But right now, I need something from you!

I need a new beta-reader. My previous one, the lovely Princess_Fawna, has gone MIA, and I've waited a while to see if she'll reappear. Please send me a note through with your qualifications if you are interested. Together, we can finish this story!


	19. Chapter 17: Duty that Cannot be Forsworn

**Author's Note: And we're back! Viewer discretion is advised, as this is not a happy chapter. You may thank my lovely new beta readers, Eva Galana and Bdub for the new content. Thank you so much ladies! As always, please read and review, and I assure you new material will be coming on a regular basis!**

* * *

**Chapter 17**

"Give in..." he whispered into her ear, his breath warm on her skin, his hands rough and callused on the back of her neck.

"Don't you deserve this? Don't you _need_ this?" Another voice hissed into her other ear; there was a hint of desperation. He wanted this, _needed this_ as badly as she did.

So she accepted it. She leaned back against him as the other man began to pull at the gloves on her hands. He was so beautiful, with his tawny eyes and sly smile. The man behind her chuckled as the other blushed; she loved it when he blushed like that. Her gloves came off, and she felt both pairs of hands work the intricate leather armor she wore. "No...we shouldn't. This can't be real. This is too...too wonderful. Too perfect."

When the heavy leather came off, it was like an intense burden was lifted from her shoulders. Again that smooth purr at her ear, followed by a kiss, by a bite. "So what? We both love you. You love us both. Why be torn about it?" The other one was kissing at her feet, his lips climbing up her leg. She felt her head tilted back, felt lips that tasted of spice and danger close over her own in a kiss. She moaned at their touch.  
"You don't hate me? Neither of you?"

"Do we look as if we hate you, lovely Syl? Do you think the King of Ferelden there kneels and worships before just anyone? Let us worship at the feet of our deadly sex goddess, hm? In return, you can have us both. Be with us both, forever."

Zevran's lips moved from her ear to her neck, lavishing attention on the smooth expanse of flesh. Alistair grinned up at her, his fingers tangled with her own. He lowered his head...  
"Yes!" Sylrien sighed in pleasure, relaxing. All that tension, all that worry was melting, draining away. "Yes..." She hissed, closing her eyes and letting the sensations both men provoked in her wash over her...

* * *

It was a tangled mass of flesh. A lean, caramel body was pressed against a pale and lithe feminine form that was all tangled in a muscular, tanned form. There was moaning, and she lost track of where one person ended and the other began. There was more to this than the various joinings of their bodies. This was love, without restrictions, without limitations. There were no kings or wardens here...There was no past, no future. It was all about the now. It was all about their heartbeats, quick and thundering in her ears. It was all about how Alistair gasped underneath her. It was about Zevran holding her tight as he shuddered in pleasure. Though every nerve in her body screamed that this was wrong, that this wasn't natural...that it couldn't be right...Gods above, she wanted it to be. She willed it to be.

It seemed like hours had passed, eons maybe. Now they were all lying exhausted on silk sheets. Alistair was the first to speak, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Sylrien smiled up at him, turning around to cuddle against Zevran as he left the perimeter of the bed. "Wine?" The man asked, looking over to the two elves.  
She stretched and smiled at him. "Sure. Sounds lovely."  
"Then how about poetry?" Zevran looked at her, propping himself up with his elbows. She nodded, reaching a hand to twirl a strand of his golden hair around her fingers.

"Of course."

They sat up, she leaning against him as he began to whisper various rhymes and limericks in her ear. Sylrien would laugh at him, with him...occasionally lean back and kiss him. Wine and poetry were simple pleasures she was happy to indulge in with the both of them.

Then things changed.

Alistair came back, and he was holding a large white chalice. She had seen that before, twelve years ago. That was...It was the Joining Chalice. Suddenly Zevran's hands closed over both her wrists, pinning her arms behind her back. He gave a low chuckle in her ear as Alistair neared the bed. "What? What are you doing? What is this? Alistair- Zevran, let go of me!"  
Alistiar looked at her with dark eyes. "This your duty. Your fate."  
"No, I won't. I won't do it again. I'd rather die...you know that I'm not...I can't. I won't. Please, Alistair..."

The words died in her throat as Zevran hissed into her ear...  
_"Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew._ "

She screamed, begged Alistair not to do this. He only looked at her stoically, bringing the chalice to her lips and tilting it forwards. She sputtered; It was thick and coppery and vile. The blood overflowed from the rim of the cup, dripping down her chin, her neck, her chest.

"Join us, Sister..." Alistair began, solemn and serious as he held the cup to her lips.

The blood was endless. It never ceased, still pouring thickly. It burned as it coursed down her throat. She was crying now, tears freely mingled with the blood. "You can't...please, please..." Still Zevran was at her ear, his voice filled with malice. "_Eighth day, we hated as she is violated._"

Alistair droned on, oblivious to her pleas. "...Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant..."

It burned. She wanted to wretch. The silk sheets were now stained red. They darkened, began to move of their own accord. They began to _pulse_, change. They seemed to stretch to the very ends of the room. The air was sweet before, all roses and sex...now it reeked of death and decay. The air grew fetid, rotten. She struggled against the Antivan elf, but he was like stone, unmovable, still whispering his blasphemous poetry into one ear as Alistair repeated the Joining Oath.

"Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn..."  
_"Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin."_

The pain, there was so much pain. She couldn't see anymore through the tears, through the blood. Why would they do this to her? Why wouldn't they have mercy on her? Then there was movement in the corner of her eye...Tentacles, snaking their way toward her. Like a wall. She had seen this before, this was familiar. No, it couldn't be. She couldn't be. It wasn't...No...There was a crunching noise, something _inside _her was changing. Then blood began to seep from between her legs. There was a cry off in the distance. They were dying. She was dying. "No..." She sobbed between the mouthfuls of the blood that would not stop pouring from that damned chalice. "You can't...you can't take them from me..." It was the screaming of children, her children. The ones she could never have, not with this death sentence, this curse.

"...And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten."

Suddenly their grip on her arms lessened; suddenly those things vanished. Now she was back in the Dead Trenches in the lair of the Broodmother. Except...except now instead of a silken bed, she lay at the center of all the corruption, all the...all the...Sylrien rocked herself back and forth, letting loose a howl. Except it wasn't her voice; she didn't recognize it. She was a monster now, a Grey Warden. They were the one and the same...Now...Now...  
_"Now she does feast, as she's become the beast."_

"And that one day, we shall join you."

Sylrien closed her eyes and sobbed, alone and broken.


	20. Chapter 18: What was Lost is Now Found

**Author's Note: Do not fear! This story will continue, and it will end. It's just a matter of time. And who knows what's after that! (Bah. I know. More Warden/Alistair/Zevran fanfic. Gah) As always, thanks to Eva Galana and Bdub for beta-ing the chapter, thanks to you, loyal readers, and please Read and Review!**

* * *

**Chapter 18**

Whatever this was, it was not right. Sadbh knew little of the ways of this Fade, nor of the ways of the round-ear elves or of the shem'len outside the forests, but she would not stand idle as the woman in the center of the room screamed in pain. The elven ghost, Adaia, had cautioned them against interfering with the woman's nightmare; breaking the illusion might mean breaking Sylrien's mind. The two foreigners accepted her word as fact, but Sadbh was not so convinced. If her time in the Beyond taught her anything, it was that nothing was as it seems. While Alistair and Zevran turned away from the sight on the floor, she and Tamlen stood at the railing, watching and waiting.

"I will follow you, Lethallin. Just give the word." Tamlen whispered to her, his hand wrapping around the hilt of his sword.

As the dreamy scene turned grisly, as Sylrien howled...Sadbh acted. Leaping from the railing, she landed in the middle of the fleshy floor; her arrows fired at the tentacles that to race toward the intruder. She felt a thud reverberate through the floor: Tamlen was at her side, and together they raised their voices in a fierce cry. The figures of shadow and light that stood on the balconies at either side of them flocked to see what was happening, to see who had interrupted the macabre entertainment. Gore splattered across Tamlen's face as he sliced a tentacle in half, another was pinned to the wooden railing by Sadbh's arrow. Every time one was cut down, two more sprang from the broken, bleeding stump. Then suddenly, another cry echoed through the hall, joined by the sound of splintering wood. It seemed that the knight had finally summoned his courage and was going to fight for the woman he seemed to care for.

His armored form crashed through the railing as he charged forward and down, landing with a heavy thud. The elf followed, nimbly jumping down on to the man's shoulders before hopping to the ground beside him. Zevran raced to the cowering figure in the center of the carnage as the other three squared off against the growing opposition. From the broken railing, the ghostly figures surged forth, all darkness and light converging against the Fade-Walkers. The three intruders stood in a triangle formation with Sylrien at their center. These ghosts were easier to manage than the Darkspawn tentacles; they cut through them with ease, their forms dissipating at the touch of cold steel and iron.

In between the unrelenting assault, Sadbh could see the blond elf trying to wake the sobbing woman. If this was her nightmare, then maybe she could end it. Sylrien was still naked and spattered with blood, and she was sobbing and muttering about something. Zevran was doing everything he could to comfort her, to ease her pain...but nothing was getting through. The Dalish warrior gritted her teeth and turned away. If they couldn't get her to stop it, then they would have to continue fighting. Sadbh was Dalish, and she would not submit to the mad dreams of a flat-ear.

* * *

Guilt coursed through him as thickly as the blood in his veins. He had abandoned her to this nightmare while a complete stranger took the steps to save her. Now all he could do was clutch her to him and beg, beg for her to wake up...again. Were these the nightmares that plagued her sleep in Antiva? How could his dream self even think of doing..._that_ to her? If she woke up, he would never stand in the way of her and her knight if it meant sparing her from such dreams as these. Not if, when. She **would** wake up and he would step back into the shadows and allow her to be happy. She just had to wake up. '_Please_,' he thought, shaking her shoulders gently, muttering the words into her ear, '_Please wake up, Syl. Please...'_

The fight raged on, but the odds were against them. Bone and muscle eventually tired when constantly assaulted, and there was no lull to be had in this battle. Still Sylrien did not wake, her eyes shut tight and her mutterings and sobbing increasing with the fervor of the battle. The trio fighting around them tightened the triangle they made, backing up against the endless wave of enemies. Zevran couldn't stay here; he had to help the others. His blades were better served against the monsters that threatened her, rather than in the sheathes at his side. He pressed his lips against hers in a quick kiss, before gently letting her go, immediately flying into the thick of the battle. Zevran raised his twin blades, sprinting towards a mass of tentacles that threatened a fallen Alistair, bringing his swords down in a vicious arc-

Only to have them disappear. Suddenly they were no longer in the underground tunnel in the Dead Trenches, but the Royal Palace. No longer was there obscene growths of flesh that pulsed underfoot, but hard cobblestone. The battle was over, and they were the victors...but how? In addition to the ended fight, there were no longer any sobbing noises by the woman behind him. He couldn't dare hope that it might mean...Zevran turned around, only to meet those large gray eyes looking up at him. Her hair was still mussed, she was still naked and covered in blood. She looked down briefly and blushed, covering her chest with her arms as she knelt on the floor. Despite her vulnerable position, Sylrien managed a weak smile at him. Maker, she could be so cruel.

Both Zevran and Alistair moved to help her up, but she stood up on her own. Usually he would have been motivated to make some lascivious remark about her lack of apparel but being in the Fade in order to track down the dreams of one of the most powerful sorceresses to ever walked Thedas soured the mood. Instead, Zevran was content to just watch her pace the width of the hall. Sylrien was taking in every detail of the room, already working on forming a plan despite her recent ordeal. She was not completely recovered, for he could spy subtle signs indicating her distress: She kept her hands held tightly behind her back in an attempt to control their trembling, and she avoided eye contact with anyone. There might be tears later on, but only when there was time for them and when she thought there was no-one else looking, but Zevran would know.

* * *

Alistair, equal parts chivalrous knight and prudish Fereldan, took off his cloak and offered it to Sylrien. It had taken her a few moments to recognize the gesture, and she gave him an absent smile as she wrapped the fabric around her waist. She had always been a quiet sort, but this complete lack of speech worried him. Whenever she got this quiet...Alistair watched her pace up and down the width of the hallway, pausing every few steps to look over her shoulder at the strange elven statue. She muttered something, too softly for him to hear, before pointing at the black mass of stone.

"There. That's how we leave this place. That's how we find her."

As if on cue, the statue began to _move_. Chunks of stone fell away as the limbs slowly flexed and creaked. Everyone but Sylrien took a step back, some of them already unsheathing their weapons. Sylrien did not back down. Instead, she darted past Alistair, taking his sword from him before he could react and started to sprint towards the statue. It was still in the process of shedding the rocky outer-layer, revealing taunt, pulsing ebon flesh underneath . He heard her growl, saw her drag his father's sword behind her. Sylrien began to dodge the falling stone, continuing to pick up speed as the statue seemed to grow and loom over the party, stretching ever taller overhead. She did not seem phased or concerned, only giving the slightest of grunts before jumping on a fallen piece of stone and jumping forward, forward and into the air...

Sinking the blade into the now fleshy chest of the statue. An unearthly howl echoed throughout the chamber and golden sand began to pour from the statue's mouth as Sylrien used her weight to slice down the sword from chest to navel. Alistair froze, part of him panicking at the possibility of another wall of sand coming at them...but it never happened. Instead, thick black ichor began to leak from the wound when the sand tapered off. The living statue gurgled, gasped as more of the sand and ichor dripped from its mouth. The statue heaved and groaned, before giving a final howl as a writhing mass of flesh dropped out of the open wound.

Sylrien did not pause; there was no flicker of hesitations in her following actions. With a tug the sword was free of the statue, which quickly turned into a cloud of black dust that enveloped her pale form for a few moments. Though he could not see her, he heard her growl, shout something as she plunged the sword into the middle of the writhing mass. There was another scream as the entire room began to shake, and for a moment, all was dark.

All that remained was a giant wolf, laboring for breath. The thing looked up at her with evil green eyes, and though its mouth moved, the voice seemed to come from everywhere,

"How...? How did you know...?"

She sneered at the beast. "In this place, Lord of Tricksters...all that is lost might yet be found, and here I remember the fleeting whispers of your betrayed kin. In breaking me, you have freed my mind and I bring Elgar'nan's wrath to his false brother!"

The dread wolf tried to snap at her, but his injuries rendered his attempts moot. All that happened was more expelling of the foul black ichor from his wound, and his bitter gasping for air came across more like strangled, hoarse laughter. Sylrien heard the others approaching, but she paid them no heed. This was the way; the gods guided her hand now. The wolf struggled and sputtered, glaring at her with intense hatred.

"You cannot kill me, Elf. I have existed long before the People ever walked the world, and I shall exist long after the final memories of you and this world fade..."

Sylrien smirked and laughed in the face of the trickster god. "Perhaps is true, Fen'Harel...but this will still hurt very much. And I _will_ enjoy this."

The emerald eyes of the wolfthing widened at the dawning realization of what she was going to do. The sound of the blade sinking into the flesh was music to her ears, and as hide was separated from muscle a bone, the resulting cries of the dread wolf echoed in the dreams of thousands spread out across Thedas.


End file.
